


Lightning Strikes Every Time (He) Moves

by cuttlemefish



Series: Partner, Let Me Upgrade You [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, End game viktuuri, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor angst maybe, Pop Star AU, The Price of Fame, Vicchan Is Alive, Viknik lyric fic, Viktor Nikiforov is MJ/Madonna levels famous, Viktor will not be making the same fashion mistakes though, Viktor with a K, alternate universe - famous musicians, celebrity shenanigans, duets for days, fake music lyrics, fake rilvalry, let's stretch the characterization a little, music all over the place, pop legend viktor nikiforov, pop prince yuuri katsuki, real music lyrics, redemption story, rich and extra viktor nikiforov, yuuri katsuki might as well be beyonce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttlemefish/pseuds/cuttlemefish
Summary: Pop Prince Yuuri Katsuki is everywhere – magazines, television, movies – and now he’s also reuniting with his old bandmates (3XO) to put on an award show tribute to living legend (and Yuuri’s personal musical hero) Viktor Nikiforov. It’s too bad everyone keeps trying to pit them against each other for the title of King of Pop, because Yuuri’s ready to have a panic attack (in a good way?) when Viktor offers him the opportunity of a lifetime: Viktor wants to produce Yuuri’s next album, but that might be harder than Viktor envisioned when he discovers Yuuri has always been too anxious to believe in his own music against the sound the Hit Factory has created for Yuuri since he was fourteen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StandinShadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StandinShadow/gifts).



> So, I'm scared to release this into the universe? But I wanted Pop Star AU and then the wifey helped me come up with real life musical inspiration for each YOI character and so now we have this hot mess (but some of you seem to like my messes so maybe you'll like this one, too?). I swear (Don't) Ring the Wedding Bells is finished now. I just need to post.
> 
> Gifted to the wife! :D

 

I.

Celestino calls them all together for brunch in Brooklyn. It’s winter in New York. 

Yuuri loves New York in the winter; he’s always been a fan of the cold. It gives him an excuse to lounge in bed for hours with his dog, reading books or drinking tea.

 _Got game by the pound_ , Yuuri listens as he enters the hip café blaring a smooth jazz version of _No Diggity_ and his shoulders move almost instinctively, threatening to send the long black coat (chosen by his stylist) slipping to the ground. He keeps the dark aviators close to his face and manages – for once! – to convince his bodyguards to stay by the armored escalade parked in front of the establishment. A few people loitering by the door recognize him and he gives them a cool, effortless nod as he struts into the restaurant, giving them little time to react. He’s learned through the years that it’s the aftermath, not the shock of meeting a celebrity that makes people do crazy things, like the brain trying to remember to breathe after running a marathon.

In his mind, he’s calculating the time by seconds: He’s late, a usual casualty of spending half an hour staring at the ceiling and making a detailed account of his life to tally whether he’s happy today. It’s not exactly a question he ever thought he’d have to ask himself, but it’s always there. Certainly, that wasn’t something he bothered mentioning to _Rolling Stone_ when he did their most recent cover: Yuuri Katsuki, Prince of Pop and Soul, top of the charts for three months and counting, and sold out world tour. He doesn’t talk about the anxiety meds. 

(When Yuuri decided to sign with Celestino Cialdini to become a member of 3XO, he’d been fourteen and naïve with some serious stage fright, mostly following his best friend Phichit into a fantasy that plucked them from a dance studio in one of Detroit’s crumbling buildings to a hit factory in Los Angeles.

His only exposure to celebrity back then had been Viktor Nikiforov. Viktor with his movie-star good-looks – all flawless alabaster skin and platinum blond hair – and his ground-breaking music videos premiering in movie theaters like Hollywood classics. In truth, it had always been Viktor, with his infectious ear worms ruling the charts week after week, reinventing himself with the smoothness of a chameleon, each layer slowly morphing him into the self-proclaimed, eccentric, brilliant King of Pop. It had looked like fun back then, going from playing pretend-pop-star breakdancing in street corners to having Minako Okukawa whispering _fame_ into his ear: ‘ _Good job, Celestino! You’ve definitely found the next Viktor Nikiforov!_ ’

And Yuuri had believed it, plastering his wall with even more posters of Viktor Nikiforov. He’d sealed his future with sweat and glitter, sacrificing bloody feet at the altar of _legend_. He’d allowed Celestino and Minako to guide him through celebrity, used his bandmates as anchors to see when the lights blinded him on stage (and his stylist couldn’t find a pair of contacts), and when Phichit and Otabek started shedding their cavity-inducing sugar pop image, Yuuri _stripped_ to beat them, fast with the force of gyrating hips and buckets of fake rain to ice an otherwise perfectly _cool_ music video, earning him a prime place in the wet dreams of a genderless mass between 17 and 35. Or so Celestino informed him, after paying some nebulous corporate entity to run the stats for them. Singlehandedly, like a dog barking at its own reflection, Yuuri had buried 3XO with his success, tricking himself into the permanence of his bandmates.

When they’d chosen to disband before him, he’d felt betrayed.)

“Yuuri!” Celestino greets him, slipping a mimosa into his hand effortlessly. “I’m so glad you could join us!”

“Sorry I’m late everyone,” Yuuri apologizes quietly.

“Don’t worry, Yuuri!” Phichit chirps, already bringing him into a tight hug. “Ah, it’s so good to see you, my little Prince of Pop!”

Truth is that Yuuri talks to Phichit at least once a day. It feels good to bring Phichit into a tight hug.

The problem is Otabek, who studies him from a distance.  Yuuri hasn’t seen much of Otabek since 3XO officially disbanded and Otabek began making a name for himself as one of the best DJs in the world, playing to sold out arenas from Shanghai to Paramaribo. It feels strange, like being reacquainted with a missing limb (that now wears solid darks and leather jackets instead of baggy jeans), and Yuuri doesn’t know how to greet his old bandmate, not after how things ended.

(Looking back at it, Yuuri can’t blame Otabek for labeling him selfish, but the words still hurt, and on days when Yuuri wonders if he’ll be able to get his next song to number one, they bite, too. It’s like acid, slowly gnawing at his mind: ‘ _You’ll never be like Viktor Nikiforov._ ’ – The reminder is strong that Yuuri has not yet made peace with the fact that he _knows_ he’ll never be as good as Viktor. For one, Viktor Nikiforov is a musical genius, who composes and arranges his own music with the expertise and self-confidence of a man that has given up on relevance long ago. It’s the same reason why Viktor’s last comeback album tanked. None of Yuuri’s songs have yet to bypass number one.)

Instinctively, Yuuri knows Otabek is not a bad person, but his anxiety colors the world in different shades. The Otabek that Yuuri remembers had been blunt and rough around the edges, but he’d also been a good bandmate – a good friend, if Yuuri can take the liberty to not pretend that someone who shared an ice tub with him after a show could be anything else, talented and eager to expose the world to his music. And now he was doing it, just like Phichit.

Yuuri can’t say the same, despite the wall of awards back home. Hours in the studio and authorship credit did not translate into Yuuri making the music he wanted to hear.

Otabek doesn’t say a word, just extends his arms out. Yuuri pulls down his sunglasses and stares for a long while at the offer in front of him. He doesn’t hesitate as tears begin to prick at his eyes and he rushes to hug his old friend, arms tight around Otabek’s middle: When Yuuri was fourteen, it had been Otabek and Phichit at his side – all three against the world. And it really had felt like they were fighting an onslaught of doubtful reviews amid an unsteady and rocky climb to their first gold album.  This moment feels like forgiveness. It feels like coming home.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri sobs, “You were right, I was being selfish.”

( _I’ll never be like Viktor Nikiforov_ , Yuuri doesn’t say.)

“Hey,” Otabek says, stern and devoid of anger. Yuuri can feel Phichit’s hand rubbing circles over his back. “It’s okay, Yuuri. I was wrong, too. I was hurt. You and Phichit were the closest to a family I ever had back then, but now I’m happy you got what you wanted. You did get what you wanted, right?” – Leave it to Otabek to easily read the world in between blurred lines.

Yuuri only cries harder until his mascara runs and Celestino ushers them out of the establishment through the kitchens. Apparently, the paparazzi have received word that Yuuri Katsuki is crying with his old bandmates in a faux hole-in-the-wall in Brooklyn. When he reads the article later, he tries to pretend not to notice that neither of his friends are mentioned by name (just as bandmates, like it’s a trademarked label).

II.

Otabek learns that Yuuri is a _huge_ Viktor Nikiforov fan when, early in their career, 3XO is invited to a children’s charity in New York. Yuuri is sixteen, then, still incredibly shy in crowds, and blossoming by the day. Technically, the Springtime of Yuuri is hitting them all. Phichit, too, is growing into solid _pretty_ , a term starting to mark his press more and more. Apparently, Otabek is growing into his _cool_. But Otabek is under no misperception that he’s anything but handsome. Yuuri, though, their Yuuri is growing into _beautiful_ and it keeps people gaping at him for days in ways that Phichit and Otabek know make Yuuri uncomfortable. (Even now, a set of pre-teens are lining the area, scouting for the perfect opportunity to ask for an autograph and a picture.) Yuuri isn’t used to designer _this_ and one-of-a-kind _that_. He doesn’t have opinions on eyeliner (which Phichit does, because he has sensitive eyes, thanks) or on jean brands (which Otabek does, because he has sponsors, thanks). Yuuri just wants to make music (and apparently fanboy over Viktor Nikiforov).  

It's a cute joke right now. Viktor Nikiforov has about nine years on Yuuri, but every media outlet and magazine imaginable has really run with the Yuuri Katsuki has a big gay crush on Viktor Nikiforov byline. Viktor is twenty-five and larger than life. He’s also entirely ignorant of 3XO, but it’s a big event and, as far as Otabek knows, Viktor is known for his charity work – children’s hospitals, animal shelters, and save the planet campaigns. It’s all right up his ally, which means any opportunity to join these is number one on Yuuri’s big asks for 3XO.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Phichit squeals, squeezing Yuuri’s arm. “And he looks so good! Look at that jacket. He’s right there, Yuuri! Now’s your moment, boy!”

“His moment for what?” Otabek asks, bored.

He doesn’t get the hype. Viktor Nikiforov is a legend, sure, with the biggest selling album of all-time, but he’s yet to beat himself again. In Otabek’s mind, that makes Viktor Nikiforov a strange type of monster – both invincible to criticism and horribly haunted by the same.

“Yuuri’s finally going to say hello to his idol,” Phichit answers for Yuuri.

Otabek nods, “that’s good, right?”

It’s not. Yuuri is so nervous that when Viktor Nikiforov graciously greets the other artists at the event – and gives a special shout-out to _my new favorites, 3XO_ – Yuuri practically climbs over some empty chairs and pushes a set of orphans aside to get closer to his idol. Otabek facepalms, looking at the scene devolve into chaos as Yuuri practically trips on an empty chair as teenagers try to get pictures.

“Wow,” Viktor Nikiforov says, laughing for the camera as Yuuri looks up at him from the perfect spot by his Italian loafers. “Teen idols, getting younger and rowdier, aren’t they?”

III.

Phichit remembers things a bit differently. When Yuuri is twenty-one, they party all night in Vegas. Apparently, Viktor Nikiforov really likes Vegas. He goes shopping there all the time and brings a couple of reporters with him to show the world he is very much not broke. A week later, he tends to go back and return almost everything, which ends up sending signals to paparazzi everywhere that, well, yes, he must be broke if he can’t keep his spur of the moment purchases. Whatever. Phichit doesn’t follow all that as much as Yuuri. More importantly, Viktor also always grabs drinks at the Light nightclub in the Mandalay Bay, which is probably the only reason they go there that night – because Yuuri gets a tip that Viktor is in Vegas again and he’s a big enough fan to know Viktor’s casual spots. Of course, that’s where (and when) Yuuri loses his shoe in the VIP section.  

“How did you not notice it was gone?” Phichit laughs, clambering behind his friend as they keep their eyes glued to the ground. The VIP section has filled up fast, which means there’s some big name mingling with the common people, or people are there for them, or both.

“You sure you lost it here?” Otabek arches an eyebrow, looking between people’s feet for the shoe. So far, none of them have had any luck. “It could’ve landed anywhere with the air that thing got.”

“Yes, we’ve spent most of our time circling the VIP area,” Yuuri sighs, sobering up by the minute. “I didn’t kick that high. Look harder. I don’t want to be tomorrow’s headline: _Yuuri Katsuki Drunk in Vegas, Hot Mess at Mandalay Bay!_ ”

“Well, we definitely don’t want that,” Viktor Nikiforov had interrupted them then (or Phichit doesn’t remember the details between Yuuri whining about being a potential headline and going blind because of Viktor _fucking_ Nikiforov, living legend), bright smile shining bright enough to rival the strobes over their heads. “You’re missing a shoe? Because I found one. It hit me on the head, actually.”

“Oh my god,” Phichit squeaks, trying to take the shoe reverently from Viktor’s gloved hands. His fingers are long. Phichit takes notes for Yuuri. He also can’t get the shoe from Viktor’s grip. “We are _so_ sorry about that, your highness, Mr. King of Pop, Sir. I guess we’re celebrating a little hard tonight. You didn’t get hurt, though, right? – Oh my god, did we tussle the royal hair? We did. Yuuri, we fucked up the royal head! There’s a little spot here—”

“No, no, don’t even worry about it,” Viktor grins, stepping back before a drunk Phichit can poke at the top of his head. Instead, he turns his attention to Yuuri. “So, your shoe?”

Yuuri nods mutely, stretching out a hand to take it back, when Viktor gets down on one knee. He watches in half-panic as Viktor’s hand gently rests against his ankle, “May I?”

Otabek rolls his eyes. Phichit isn’t fast enough to start filming.

“Ah, it’s okay, really,” Yuuri struggles, but allows Viktor to lift his foot gently. Viktor slips the shoe back on smoothly. “T—thank you!” Yuuri squeaks, face flushed red as he watches the scene. Phichit will, thereafter, forever more hear about the time Viktor Nikiforov touched Yuuri’s ankle. Otabek will always pretend to hurl whenever Yuuri would wax poetically about what a gentleman Viktor Nikiforov had been. _They don’t make them like that anymore_ , Minako had always told them, _but that doesn’t mean we can’t try to make you all like that. Start running. Strong thighs don’t make themselves!_

“No problem,” Viktor nods, getting back up. His bodyguards are behind him and it’s obvious he’s about to depart. Viktor winks at him as he strolls past them, saying, “Happy birthday.”

Once he’s gone, Yuuri turns to his friends, “Oh my god. Did that just – Viktor Nikiforov knows _my_ birthday? Oh my god. You don’t think he really does listen to 3XO, do you guys?”

Otabek pokes at the giant pin on Yuuri’s jacket. “Well, this thing on your chest does say _Birthday Boy_ in bright neon yellow. He’s old enough that he can read.”

Phichit shoves Otabek, “Stop raining on his parade. Like the pin says, he’s the _Birthday Boy_. Ah, Yuuri! This is so exciting! Viktor Nikiforov just go down on one knee for you! Was it everything you ever thought it would be?”

Yuuri nods, “I almost want to take off my shoe and hug it tight to my chest, guys. I think I’m drunk.”

 IV.

The Top of the Pop Charts (TPCs) Awards mark exactly three years since 3XO officially disbanded.  It also marks twenty-five years of Viktor Nikiforov rocking the world with infectious ear worms and groundbreaking mini-movies. At 37, Viktor can proudly boast a body that won’t quit, a voice that won’t tire, and hips that won’t lie, even if he hasn't exactly released anything recently to prove it. Naturally, the TPCs had asked 3XO to reunite to commemorate Viktor’s achievements. No one is under any pretense: 3XO has been asked because Yuuri tries to avoid performing for the award show circuit when he’s preparing to tour. This is TPC’s way of exploiting Yuuri’s name without the liability of Yuuri dropping out at the last minute. Of course, they accept.

The weeks leading up to the event are a fog of tears and anxiety – from Yuuri.

“It has to be perfect, guys,” he tells his friends, sweating buckets as he tries to take in a breath, “just, just one more time.”

“Yuuri, you need to calm down,” Phichit reminds him gently, trying to stuff a water bottle into Yuuri’s  grip. “You’re going to kill yourself practicing here and then practicing for your tour. It’s going to be okay. You’re the best performer in the world right now.”

“It has to be perfect,” Yuuri repeats. The pressure is high and he just feels so limited, so very limited. He’s been dreaming of a moment like this for years. “I want Viktor to see just how much he’s inspired me all this time.”

V. 

 _The Take_ is the most-watched show in afternoon television with a panel of women in entertainment commenting on the latest on everything. Phichit is obsessed. Every afternoon, he takes a break from practice to get his hamsters, a bowl of popcorn, and his old 3XO blanket to tune in. Today’s topic of conversation just so happens to be his best friend, who is cuddling by his side, half-asleep after a grueling set of back-to-back gym and choreography sessions. Phichit lets his fingers comb through Yuuri’s thick hair, humming gently.  

“Okay, so, real talk time: Who else is obsessed with Yuuri Katsuki?” Tricia, one of the presenters, raises her hand. The entire audience claps. “Me too! Okay, so I’m not alone in keeping _Eros_ playing on loop all day, right? – Well, _Eros_ just went platinum, which means at this point it has sold over 1 million _physical_ copies. Completely unbelievable in the age of iPods. But there you have it. Yes, definitely claps! That is clap-worthy!”

“I’ve been listening to _Still At It_ all week!” Ashley, a petite bobbed blonde, admits to the surprise of the group. She’s a self-certified country girl at heart, and _Still At It_ is probably one of Yuuri’s most petty pieces of music – a mixture of head-bobbing, hip-shaking pop-meets-hip-hop with more spoken word than song, in which Yuuri Katsuki, Prince of Pop, struts all his frustrations with critics for the world to see: _After I went solo – boy (what a) rollercoaster (rollercoaster), he’s such a monster, (they say I’m) such a monster (such a monster)_. “I think Yuuri Katsuki’s the hardest working man in show business. He’s everywhere: _Rolling Stones_ last month, _Vogue_ this month, on a cereal box, about to go on tour, he’s on television, he has a small cameo in a movie, a perfume ad – I mean, he’s all over the place. And now 3XO is reuniting!”

Phichit gasps, thinking of elbowing Yuuri to wake up, but he’s fast asleep. The crowd has gone absolutely insane on the television, their claps and whistles becoming almost white-noise. By their feet, Vicchan lifts his head before lazily resuming his nap.

Helen, Phichit’s personal favorite with her purple hair, speaks up next. “I’m kind of a little in love with Yuuri Katsuki. I got to interview him early in the year and he is such a sweetheart, so sweet and gracious and so soft-spoken, really completely different from the performer we see on TV. I like to think we had a moment.”

The other presenters laugh.

“Like I was saying,” Ashley continues, full excitement radiating from her, “3XO is reuniting to put on a performance at the TPCs to celebrate Viktor Nikiforov and someone leaked some footage of Yuuri Katsuki performing a mash-up made by probably Otabek Altin of Viktor’s _Ooh_ with Yuuri’s new song _Eros_ , which already samples it and it is so hot. It is looking like Yuuri is gonna help us all celebrate Nikiforov’s bondage age with the whip and everything, so parents you might want to keep your kids from seeing the show until after you’ve seen it first.”

“Apparently,” Tina, who is from Thailand as well (and Phichit always roots for her), finally enters the conversation, “a reporter asked Viktor Nikiforov the other day what he thought of people calling Yuuri Katsuki the new King of Pop and, well, take a look, folks.”

 _“People are saying Yuuri Katsuki is the new King of Pop. What do you have to say?"_

_Viktor Nikiforov blinks a few times, obviously caught by surprise, before he steeples his hands and presses his fingertips close to his lips. He takes a few seconds before he says, “You know, I’ve been following Yuuri’s career for a very long time. I think he’s incredibly talented and a very hard worker and I’ve thought many, many times that if I ever had an opportunity to collaborate, to produce someone else’s album, I would love for it to be Yuuri’s.”_

_“Have you listened to Eros? Yuuri has said many, many times he was fully inspired by you.”_

_“Yes, of course. It samples a bit of one of my songs so of course my team had me listen to it first to give permission and I was thrilled. It’s a really fun take on_ Ooh _. I’ve had it on loop for a while, but I haven’t heard the whole album. I hear it’s really good though.”_

_“What’s your favorite line?”_

_“Girl put on those high-heels, slip up those stockings, let me bill you later for the show,” Viktor croons, laughing. “Of course I’m going to like my part the best._ Ooh _is very special to  me.”_

_“And what would you say to the people who do think you’re done, that Yuuri Katsuki is the new King in town?”_

_“I don’t get into petty fights with people, Julie. We’re all trying to make it. I take as much pride in being number one today as I did twenty years ago. I’ve been around for a long time. I didn’t stay up here picking fights, but making good music. That’s what I do. I let my music speak for itself.”_

“You have to hand it to Viktor,” Astoria, the older of all the presenters and in the music industry, says as she claps. “He’s been around long enough and when you still, after some fifteen years, still have the best-selling album of all time? – You have nothing to prove. That’s it. Game over. Yuuri Katsuki is brilliant, but Nikiforov was dancing circles all over the world years before Yuuri Katsuki ever had a hit single.”

“But that’s the thing, right?” Helen pipes in, “He hasn’t had a hit in a while. He hasn’t toured in five years. His last album took him four years to make and it tanked.”

“Tanked by whose standards?” Astoria reprimands, “Look, _Kingdom_ premiered at number one all over the world, all around the world. It stayed number one for weeks. The RIAA certified it platinum in a single month, just at the start of the people-don’t-buy-CDs age. Yuuri Katsuki’s _Eros_ just made it to platinum in three months. Come on, guys. I think everyone wants to see Viktor Nikiforov fail and the reality is that at his worst, he still gave us the best we’ve seen. And now he’s all over the news for what? For doing _nothing,_ the man has released _nothing_ in five years. He leaked one song and it was all over the net. Come on.”

“Okay, sure,” Tina waves them both off, “but _Kingdom_ also cost like $30 million to make. It is the most expensive album of all time and I don’t think it recouped the cost at all.”

“Diamond. Certified diamond sales worldwide – over ten million copies sold worldwide. At around, what, $15 per unit, we’re talking millions. I think it made the money back. I like Yuuri Katsuki, guys, I love him! I love my Yuuri boo. We are both huge Viktor stans, and he can single-handedly tell you that he thinks _Kingdom_ is a masterpiece that was just too far ahead for its time. We’ve had that conversation. But comparing Viktor to Yuuri is unfair to both. Viktor is happy making the music he like best—”

“And his sound is dated,” Tina sighs.

“Viktor Nikiforov’s _dated_ sounds still sell more than Yuuri Katsuki in three months, though. I’m done with this conversation, guys. Yuuri is amazing. Viktor is amazing. Kudos to them both and may the music gods bless us with a collaboration.”

The crowd claps. Phichit stuffs his mouth with more popcorn. It's a good thing Yuuri is asleep.

“I think,” Ashley nods, “that there is an interesting point here, though, right? Sex sells a lot and that’s kind of what Yuuri is selling now. It’s a formula that worked for Viktor, so no judgment there, and it’s worked for many, but it’s a young person’s game and Viktor Nikiforov is thirty-seven now, guys. We like to forget, but he’s pushing forty, whereas Yuuri is still pretty comfortable in not-quite-thirty. They’re at different levels.”

Helen nods, “that’s right. Who knows? Maybe Yuuri will go on to have the best-selling album of all time, right? Maybe? While we go on break, tell us, do you have a favorite? Are you also obsessed with _Eros_? Still polishing those old Viktor Nikiforov albums? Talk to us at [www.thetake.com](http://www.thetake.com).”   

Phichit stares at the television in shock as he feels Yuuri stir next to him. He looks down at his friend.

“Hey, Yuuri?” he asks, still pushing Yuuri’s hair back in a soothing motion. When Yuuri hums that he’s paying attention, Phichit asks, “What do you think about Viktor Nikiforov’s _Kingdom_?”

Yuuri stretches, eyes focusing on Phichit from behind his glasses, “ _Kingdom_? – Underappreciated musical genius. I bought three copies, one for each of the different covers. I love it so much. Why?”

“What would you do if someone said it tanked?” Phichit tests the waters.

Yuuri frowns, slowly beginning to rise, “I’d fight them. Why?”

Phichit chuckles, “No reason, Yuuri. Just something silly I heard on TV on _The Take_. Go back to sleep.”

**TBC – Possibly.**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri Katsuki is the American dream, bleeding out his insecurities on the dance floor. Viktor Nikiforov is an industry shark, who can smell blood in the water from miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY LOVES, THANK YOU! Your comments and kudos and subscriptions are keeping this little dream of mine alive. I hope you will keep supporting me with your amazing words! <3 I'm a slut for comments. No shame. Ya'll keep this brain of my going. Here is the rest of the 6k words I have, minus Yuuri's tribute performance, which will leave Viktor shook!

 VI.

Yuuri remembers what it’s like to _need_ : No one will ever get him to say anything bad about his childhood in Detroit, but, looking back at it, Yuuri can soberly admit that his family was barely digging its fingernails into the middle class back then.

It hadn’t felt too different from the reality of his friends. Detroit had been a crumbling city in some corners, suffering the effects of a long recession that blanketed the city like a fog, making it hard to see above the poverty line. In a way, Yuuri now understands that it’s impossible to compare a life when it was the only one he’d ever known. Yuuri really hadn’t known any better until magazines started describing him as _the American dream_ , a first-generation boy from a sad city now making millions with an intact goody-goody image he was willing to smash only as far as the shore of entertainment. Yuuri wasn’t a party boy. He went to college. He kept his early paychecks in sensible investment funds. He didn’t go on wild shopping sprees and, at the first opportunity, had bought his family a condo and his sister a nice, but not entirely unaffordable car. It was a lot to bear on his shoulders. Yuuri Katsuki, dime a dozen dancer and singer in a boy band was one thing. Yuuri Katsuki, inspiration to inner city youth everywhere? – That was something else.

“Welcome back to the world of the living, Yuuri. Don’t move. You’re at my private practice. I’ve been monitoring you for about six hours now. You collapsed during practice. What happened, hmm? – This isn’t our first rodeo,” Dr. Crispino asks. He’s a good guy: Michele Crispino is a young doctor and the twin brother of Sara Crispino. Sara is a regular in the Top 40s. Yuuri had collaborated with her for a Grammys performance and, to her unluckiness, he’d proceeded to have a terrible anxiety attack during their second practice session. She’d knelt on the ground with him, making white noise with her voice. Yuuri still didn’t remember half the things she had whispered to him, but he did remember her slipping her brother’s card into his hand (telling him, “Michele knows to be discrete.”). 

Yuuri looks at the sterile room and sighs. He’s been here before. There’s a reason Dr. Crispino now has a room in his own home. It makes for an easier time than being chased by paparazzi to the nearest hospital.

“Guess,” he clears his throat (and doesn’t remember if his voice is hoarse from too much or too little use), “guess I got dehydrated?”

“Yes, that’s obvious,” Michele arches an eyebrow, shaking his head. “You want to talk about it?”

Yuuri’s parents had been the owners of a lovely onsen back in Hasetsu. They’d had Mari there, long before Yuuri was a twinkle in his mother’s eye – the dream of a destiny now realized. It’s a destiny that weighs heavy on Yuuri. His parents had left Hasetsu at the start of a poor business cycle that closed most of the onsens in the city. His father had looked to America, so a small Mari and his parents left for America and made Detroit home, where the recession seemed to follow them like a storm cloud. Yuuri would always wonder why Detroit, until he realized one day that a ghost town makes for cheap rent.

“I guess I’m stressed?” he tries again. It’s not a lie. Yuuri is _always_ stressed. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”

“You can’t inconvenience your personal physician, Yuuri,” Michele sighs again, taking his blood pressure. “You can worry me, but not inconvenience me. Is it the Nikiforov show? Your bandmates were worried. You fell right on the angry one.”

“Beka?” Yuuri winces, trying to sit up. “He’ll be pissed. I can go home, right?”

“Not tonight so get comfy,” Dr. Crispino pushes him back gently.

Yuuri had always known – despite his family’s best intentions – that he made life hard for them all. He hadn’t exactly been a planned pregnancy. For his entire childhood, Yuuri tried to make himself small, take as little space as possible, but it never seemed to work. Money was always tight.

Viktor Nikiforov had been a wonderful escape back then. Yuuri’s not proud of it even now (and he’d told J14 as much one day in an attempt to convince kids to _make good choices_ ), but he can still remember when Viktor came out with _Iced_. It had been a particularly rough month for his family, but Yuuri had been desperate to get his hands on the album (and far too shy to ask his parents for the money), so at ten years old he’d slipped the album into his jacket and walked out. For weeks, he’d listened to Viktor croon out: _Don’t believe the things you tell yourself so late at night, you are your own worst enemy, you’ll never win the fight, just hold on to me, I’ll hold onto you, because it’s you and me against the world, it’s you and me_.

(And Yuuri had believed it. He’d believed that somewhere in the world, Viktor Nikiforov was talking to him.)

“Alright. Can I call someone to check on Vicchan for me, then?”

Mari had discovered the album one day when she came home from her part-time gig a little sooner than Yuuri had expected. Of course, she’d made him do chores around the house to earn enough to pay the owner of the store back.

“Sure. Your hands and ears are fine,” Michele chuckles, patting Yuuri’s leg. “No practice tomorrow. Doctor’s orders.”

Yuuri had cried the entire way to the store. He should’ve known then that instead of silently cursing Mari, he should’ve thanked her, because it shouldn’t have been her job to parent, but in a home that was always trying to hold itself together by glue, everyone had to pitch in. Yuuri was an amalgamation of a childhood built by many adults – an entire village of love, even if modest in means.

“But the show’s in three days!”

“Yuuri, you need sleep. At least ten hours. No practice tomorrow.”

Yuuri remembers a lot of things, like his mother’s cooking, and his father’s laugh, and his sister’s hugs, and his old neighborhood, but he’s not quite sure how (or when) he became anyone’s dream, much less America’s. He’s not very good with expectations, so he nods, trying to be a good patient, until the next morning when he’s back home and eyes his complete collection of Viktor Nikiforov CDs and picks of _Iced_ again.

He pops it in and listens to Viktor sing: _Fuck if I knew how to be more romantic (I’m good at being platonic). If I speak the truth, will you panic? (I’m not being ironic)._ There’s a strange comfort in listening to _Cool_ after years. But then the CD skips and suddenly there’s a different song blasting all over his apartment, like a violent reminder that he’s taken things that don’t belong to him before: _Baby, watch out ‘cause I’m a monster (su-such a monster), I’ll make your world whirl like a rollercoaster. Oh baby, ring, ring, ring my telephone. I’ll get back to you like a tornado (oh oh oh)._ And Yuuri panics, punching the disc player in front of him.

VII.

A reporter once asked Yuuri how – being so shy – he managed to put on such good shows. Yuuri chose to speak the truth that time, having finally started on an anti-anxiety medication that (seemed like it) worked (and feeling like he could take on the world – a obvious sign that, maybe, it wasn’t quite working just like it should). He’d been a little loopy for those few months, hyper and excited and always laughing in interviews, but he’d been young, so it was semi-acceptable. Phichit likes to call that his drunk-Yuuri phase.  

“I have an alter-ego,” he’d said then, “I call him Eros. Eros is everything Yuuri Katsuki is too afraid to be.”

“So,” the reporter had looked at him with wild eyes, like he’d just discovered a gold mine, “before you go on stage you, what, try to channel Eros?”

“Yeah!” Yuuri had laughed, “It’s like picking up a mental telephone. I just tell Eros, hey, come on by, I’ve got a ton of people that missed you! And he’s a bit of a voyeur, so he comes!”

VIII.

Yuuri hates red carpet events. This one isn’t too bad with Phichit and Otabek by his side, but the entire time as Yuuri is posing for the cameras, a step ahead of his bandmates at the request of the cameramen (who seem similarly eager to have him turn around), he’s jumpy, eyes skirting the perimeter for Viktor Nikiforov and his date.

(His date. Yuuri’s trying hard not to look heartbroken, considering he’s slated to win some six awards, maybe seven if he manages to snatch the _Crowd Favorite_ , which his performance of _Still At It_ should get him.)

It’s not like Yuuri had expected Viktor to ask him to attend the TPCs with him just because Yuuri is about to put on the tribute of a lifetime. That would have been ridiculous.

But Yuuri had heard that Viktor was coming with Mila Babicheva. Mila who is young and hot. She’s new in the music scene and signed under Viktor’s label. Yuuri _knows_ this date is completely platonic (because Viktor has fifteen years on  her), but he can’t help feeling just a little upset: If Viktor really wanted young arm candy, Yuuri isn’t as young as Mila, but, well, surely he’s still arm candy enough, right? Yuuri couldn’t be more obvious about his crush on Viktor, either. (And Eros hasn’t been subtle recently.) Every interview, every show, and every damn opportunity seems to be like screaming into a void. It’s starting to make him look desperate, which is turning off his 14 to 22-year-old demographic, per the latest study commissioned by Celestino. Apparently, to that segment of his fan group, Viktor Nikiforov is yesterday’s news, the type of stuff old people listen to – and in their mind, old is close to thirty – an age Yuuri is approaching fast. By mooning over Viktor at every opportunity (enough for there to be a YouTube compilation of Yuuri physically falling in the presence of Viktor Nikiforov (10 minutes long)), he’s losing his credibility as a creator of relevant-and-cool-content fast.

“There he is!” a reporter yells, just as Minako is pulling 3XO off the carpet and ushering them fast to their seats. And Yuuri can’t help but look over his shoulder to see Viktor Nikiforov, looking amazing in a white ensemble with black trimmings and edges (the black perfectly matches Yuuri, and that has got to be _fate,_ right?) with his hair cut short, except for the fringe hiding a portion of his left eye.

He looks beautiful, talking to reporters with animated hand gestures.

“Minako, wait,” Yuuri begs. “Minako, please? I want to see.”

“They have you sitting to his left,” Minako promises, unrelenting as she shoves them all towards the staircase leading to the banquet hall. “It’ll be really great press, Yuuri! The King and the Prince, sitting side by side, smiling and sharing commentary on the TPCs. So, don’t let us down and don’t do something embarrassing.”

“What?” Yuuri panics, “No. I can’t. Every time I see Viktor, I do something embarrassing, like hit him with my shoe or hold his hand too long. Phichit, you need to take that seat!”

“No way! I’m sitting next to Leo de la Iglesia and I’m determined to figure out who does his eyebrows in LA. I’ve got it all planned in my head and it will not happen if I’m sitting to your right instead of your left. Yuuri, you don’t even have to talk to him. I’m sure Mila Babicheva will keep him plenty entertained. She can talk for days!”

“Beka?” Yuuri begs, as Otabek slowly takes hold of his shoulders and points him in the right direction. “Traitors the lot of you! Please, Beka?”

“I’m on the same row, just opposite Yuri Plisetsky. I don’t think you want to have the press write _Yuuri (right) and Yuri (left)_ when they cover the event. You’ll be okay. And, if you’re not, I’ll pick a fake fight with Yuri P. to get the attention away from you. He’s a friend and he owes me one for that time I snuck him into a nightclub in Astana. It was a themed night: Cats.”

IX.

It’s not okay. His friends are liars. Yuuri doesn’t even make it to his seat. The TPCs just lost an act: J.J. and Isabella are stuck in Canada due to some weather delays and now the TPCs have a chunk of time to fill before the show starts and there’s a sizeable crowd of teens and twenty-somethings risking the New York cold for no act. They have ideas on who they can ask if Yuuri doesn’t want to do it – and Yuuri shouldn’t do it, because he has a tribute performance, his own show time to fill, and it’s cold out there, too cold to go out there wearing faux-leather pants.

“I’ll do it,” he says, and they rush him outside. Minako fusses over him every step of the way, pushing his hair back and taking his glasses. He’s not wearing contacts, but he’ll manage so long as the lights aren’t blinding, and it seems Minako has already discussed that with the right people. The sound folks look a little jostled when Yuuri arrives and he immediately gets to work: “I need loud. I need you guys to do your part, okay? They need to _feel_ it, I mean, really feel it.” The music techs nod, like they understand. Yuuri hopes they do.

“I need you to kill the lights. You don’t turn them on until I start singing, got it?”

Minako is already pulling at his fitted white button-up, making sure the right buttons are undone. “How does the grip feel on the gloves?” she asks him. She’d been fully against the fingerless gloves, but they feel good and sturdy, so he tells her as much. The moment is going by in a whirl of color and sound, mostly the white noise of the crowd merging with the honks and sirens of the city.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, teeth chattering in the cold. He’s dropped his blazer on the ground. “Where are my dancers?”

“They’re here,” Celestino is breathing hard, having probably run the boys over. “Goodness sake, if I’m not here, does no one think about glitter? His chest needs more glitter. Did no one bring the fucking glitter?”

“It’s fine. We’ll do it with the glitter I already have; we don’t want to blind them out there. Guys,” Yuuri apologizes, “I’m sorry. But that’s why we practice, right? – We’re doing a set of three songs. It’s the only thing we had on hand. We’re doing Problem first, before switching into Dark Horse and I’ll finish with 4Ever.”   

The stage descends into darkness. Yuuri has the TPCs turn off the audience’s lights, too. The crowd gasps and Yuuri immediately grabs for the microphone. None of the audience members are expecting him: They’re expecting J.J. and Isabella, with their big, elaborate lightshows upfront. J.J. likes a big entrance. Yuuri, taking after his idol, likes surprises.

“Hey,” he whispers sultrily into the microphone. The audience immediately goes crazy, clapping and whistling as they recognize his voice, and he smiles as he continues, “okay, this is Yuuri Katsuki. Let’s make history."

“Yuuri breathe,” Minako whispers to him back-stage once he hands over the microphone. She tries to squeeze his shoulders, but he’s not feeling a thing in the cold. Celestino lifts a fluffy, ugly coat behind him, like a promise, and Yuuri shakes his head with a chuckle. “You’ll do fine.”

“Yeah, we’ll be okay,” Yuuri smiles and steps into the darkness. It’d be less comforting if he wasn’t used to walking blind by now.

 X.

Phichit sits on Yuuri’s seat at the request of the producers. They don’t want Viktor Nikiforov to have an empty space next to him on camera. When he inches close, Viktor turns to Phichit to give him a bright smile: “Hi neighbor,” he says, smooth and easy before flipping his hair back. It’s an awkward hair-cut, but Nikiforov makes it look good, really good. Phichit takes mental notes for Yuuri about what his cologne smells like. It’s thick and heavy enough that Phichit is sure he’s going to smell like Viktor for days. He texts Otabek as much and receives back a message that reads: _Great. So, we bathe Yuuri while he’s asleep after a week, then, or call it after three days? He’s going to want to smell like Viktor for days minimum._

_He’s the Prince of Pop_ , Phichit replies, _he can afford to be eccentric and cut off showering for life._

_Just because Celestino says Yuuri glows doesn’t mean his sweat doesn’t stink_ , Otabek sends back almost instantly. Next to him, Yuri Plisetsky snorts.   

Mila waves at Phichit from around Viktor, “hello!”

“Hi,” Phichit smiles, pocketing his phone. “Your regular neighbor should be back soon, but he was asked to cover for J.J. tonight.”

“Ah, Ottawa experiencing some bad weather?” Viktor asks innocently, though he looks positively delighted. Next to him, Mila pinches him. “Ouch. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It was an innocent question.”

“Nothing is ever innocent with you,” Mila rolls her eyes, tucking a lose strand of fire-red hair behind her ear. She has diamonds dripping from every possible place – neck, ears, wrists, fingers. It’s impressive how many sponsors she probably has, though rumor’s been going around that Viktor Nikiforov considers her a personal muse and has been buying her jewelry like it’s going out of style. “Stop fixing my tiara.”

Viktor pokes the small thing on her head again, “I wouldn’t have to if it wasn’t crooked.”

“Shut up, idiots,” Yuri Plisetsky shushes them all. “Katsuki’s about to come on.”

“Oh,” Viktor grins, leaning over Mila to poke at Yuri’s pink cheeks. “Someone’s excited to see Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Shut up, old man. I’m trying to study the competition.”

Viktor rolls his eyes, leaning closer to Phichit to whisper, “He’s a huge fan of Yuuri’s. You think you can help us get five minutes with him at an after-party or something? I hear it’s really hard to see Yuuri now-a-days. I’ve been trying – through my manager, of course – to get some time and, apparently, he’s booked through January.” He brushes his hair back, sighing melodramatically as he pouts, “Pop Princes these days. No respect for their elders.”

Phichit gapes, surprised, “Wait, what? No way! Yuuri, like, worships you! He’d never _not_ meet with you on purpose.”

Viktor turns to Phichit with stars in his eyes, taking a hold of his hand, “Really? He does?”

“Uh,” Phichit slowly extricates his hand away, overwhelmed with the attention, “yeah, totally, uh, sir.”

“Sir,” Viktor wrinkles his nose, returning his attention to the giant black screen in front of them. (On screen, Phichit sees the lights come on and land on Yuuri as he begins to sing _Hey, baby, even though I hate you, I wanna love you_.) “I’m not _that_ old,” Viktor scoffs, looking more than a little put-out.

“You’re not old at all! I was just trying to be respectful. Sorry! My point is that Yuuri is totally in love with you. I mean, totally in love with your music. He’d definitely meet with you in a heartbeat.”

Viktor turns back towards him slowly, a strange half-smile on his lips. His stared has iced again, like he’s studying Phichit.

“You’re Phichit, right? Phichit Chulanont?” he asks, slowly, like he’s tasting each word. Phichit nods. Viktor looks bored as he says, “Your last single _Shapes_ was an homage to the good old days of R &B. I listen to it on loop every morning now. You were robbed at the Music Television Awards. The MTAs are popularity contests now. Don’t take it personally. Your song is brilliant.”

And Phichit thinks he’s about to choke. It’s an incredible compliment, even if the delivery is sloppy.

“I hope you win tonight.”

“I’m pretty sure the award is going to Yuuri,” Phichit smiles, proud for his best friend.

“Ah, yes, for, what’s the song again? 4Ever, right?” Viktor keeps his eyes on the screen, watching as Yuuri obviously copies some of his old moves.

Phichit nods, “Yeah. 4Ever.”

“A song about a pop star promising that he’s ready to settle down to a faceless mass of sixteen to forty-year-olds? Very original,” he smirks, like Phichit is now his best friend and they’re in on some secret together. “Like I said, popularity contest. 4Ever is in no way better than Shapes. You’re a good friend, Phichit Chulanont. Personally, I would’ve rioted.”

Viktor doesn’t address him after that. Shapes is musically speaking more sophisticated than 4Ever, but Yuuri is an amazing performer and he has an impressive range in that song. Phichit frowns, mulling over the words slowly, until a ping on his phone startles him again.

Otabek is staring pointedly at Phichit, having just sent a message that reads: _Careful. Nikiforov is very good with his mouth. Bitch is cut-throat._

Phichit types back quickly, _I noticed. Let’s keep a close eye on Yuuri tonight, okay?_

**TBC – Maybe more. We’ll see if the inspiration bunnies come to visit.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor Nikiforov has plans. A lot of plans. But he's definitely not as bold as Yuuri Katsuki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or the chapter where I begin to question why I wrote this. Like, so many fake lyrics. So hard. Why did I do this... /cries

XI. 

Yuuri Katsuki is an impressive force of nature when he wants something. When Christophe Giacometti turns down an offer to participate in Viktor Nikiforov’s TPC Awards tribute performance, he doesn’t expect Yuuri to show up at his New York penthouse to ask him to reconsider. It’s entirely disconcerting and very much unlike the soft-spoken wallflower Chris had met a handful of times in the past, but it seems Yuuri just keeps on reinventing himself at a speed fast enough to retain the attention of the _now_ generation – the rest of them just can’t keep up. Except for Chris. Despite his age, Chris would like to think that he can definitely keep up with Yuuri Katsuki, at least better than Viktor. 

(It’s not that Chris wants to say no.

Viktor is one of his best friends, if not the only other person in the industry that understands him – and even then, they only get each other in slivers. But the two of them have had an understanding since the early days of their careers, and fake rivalries, once successful in selling tour tickets, are hard to break. So, they keep their regular dinner dates a secret, taking turns between visiting each other at one of their many real estate purchases.)

Chris opens the door, feasting his eyes on the sight of Yuuri in a pair of slim-fit dark jeans, fitted white shirt, and a dark blue blazer. With his hair slicked back and a pair of dark, Gucci sunglasses, Yuuri looks every bit like a walking wet dream, which seems to be exactly what he’s going for as he leans lazily against the doorway.

“Chris,” he smiles, biting on his bottom lip. Slowly, he slips off he sunglasses. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I was in the neighborhood. Mind if I, uh, come in?”

(Typical adorable Yuuri Katsuki, forgetting his own lines, probably smudged on his hand and covered by the fingerless gloves. It’s an adorable little fashion nod at Viktor, with a little twist.)

Chris chuckles, taking pity on the poor boy, who has obviously never done a drive-by before. This is the type of thing people at Viktor and Chris’ level manage seamlessly when they want something bad. A smile here, a flicked wrist there, just a look over the shoulder while wearing some designer knick-knack, it tends to send the younger acts reeling desperate for even the potential of more attention. Yuuri is new Pop royalty, though, still getting his bearings and testing the waters of his influence. Chris respects this move: It’s bold. Chris isn’t an industry teeny-bopper, but Yuuri is more self-aware and self-possessed than Chris had imagined, especially when last time they’d met Yuuri had practically tried to crawl up the wall to get away from Chris’ more mild flirtations.

“You must have been, mon cher, considering you own the apartment right below my penthouse. What can I do for you, neighbor? – In need of a cup of sugar?” He turns away from the door, spinning slowly as he walks back towards his personal bar. He sashays, making sure the long silk robe he’s wearing snakes behind him. With a wicked grin, he pats the expansive collection of alcohol. “I’ve got plenty. How sweet do you want it, or would like to play a fun game of Russian Roulette, instead?”

It wouldn’t be the first-time Chris has had to turn down the advances of adorable baby pop stars. Yuuri Katsuki is slowly maturing, like fine wine, but he’s still a little too soft for Chris. He’s just perfect for Viktor, though.

“I’ll have some water,” Yuuri nods, plopping down on Chris’ brand new purple velvet sofa. It’s rich in color, contrasting beautifully with Yuuri’s soft skin and dark head of hair. “Please.”

Chris chuckles, “how about vodka? Closest I’ve got. It’s the same color.”

Yuuri shakes his head, “you have pop? Any will do.”

“You’re such a Detroit boy. I swear you Michigan boys and your _pop_. Phichit calls it pop, too, doesn’t he? In the East Coast, we say soda,” Chris laughs, pulling out a can of Pepsi. “You okay to drink the competition? I know you signed with Coke recently, but I’m afraid I’m my people don’t give me much fridge space to be a rebel when it comes to sponsors.”

Yuuri flushes pink, “What’s a few secrets between friends, right? I won’t mind, if you won’t tell.”

Chris leans his elbows on the bar top, studying Yuuri from afar, “Are we friends, Yuuri? I’m glad to hear you consider us friends. I don’t have too many of those, you know.” Looking at Yuuri Katsuki, trying too hard with his slicked-back hair and his shaking shoulders, Chris wonders what’s going on in the boy’s mind. He sets the soda can on the counter before fishing in his mini-fridge again for a can of Coca-Cola. The red glint flashes in the room under the soft yellow lights.

Yuuri beams, “You carry Coca-Cola?”

“What’s a few secrets between friends.” Chris brings the can over to him, sitting down on the opposite, far end of the sofa. He says, “Don’t go telling my sponsors now. So, Yuuri, since we’re friends and you didn’t come for a cup of sugar or a drink, what exactly are you here for? I’m afraid I’ve been living here longer than you have, and you didn’t bring a pie, so this isn’t a neighborly visit.”

Yuuri’s hand immediately fell between them. “It could be?”

“Don’t play this game, Yuuri. This has only ever worked once on me. You, darling, are gorgeous, but you are no Viktor Nikiforov. Not to mention you’re very talented and wholesome and you shouldn’t change that. If you need a favor, tell me. I’ll see what I can do.”

Something breaks then on Yuuri’s face and he gasps, recoiling back in shock. He splutters, “Wh—what exactly does that mean? What do you think. You think. Are you implying that? I didn’t come here with any intentions, I don’t…”

Chris sobers, stretching a comfortable arm over the expanse of the sofa’s back.

“You’ve slept with Viktor?” Yuuri whispers, wholly broken. “He slept with you for a favor? I didn’t think people at Viktor’s level did those type of things. He’s so talented.”

“One, drunk hand jobs in a recording studio can hardly be called sleeping together, and two, it was mutual and we were having fun, so it’s not like he was squeezing my balls to torture me into agreeing. It’s not like he goes around sleeping with everyone. In fact, the complete opposite. The man is such a control freak, I can guarantee you at least one of those three engagements was fake,” Chris sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Point is, please don’t put words in my mouth, darling. Viktor Nikiforov is a professional,” he winks, “he just so happens to also be a man. And human. But if this was not an attempt to sleep with me to get me to agree to do something for you – which I’m super disappointed, by the way – then what exactly was this supposed to be, Yuuri?”

“I knew. I _know_ about your friendship with Viktor. People, they talk to me about industry things, when people get really drunk,” Yuuri whispers, hands already fisting into tight balls and Chris wonders if Yuuri Katsuki isn’t actually sleeping with Viktor on the sly. (Later, when he calls to ask, Viktor will sound surprised, asking directly, “No. Why? What have you heard?” – And later, once Chris understands everything, when he has Yuuri Katsuki in his apartment again, drunk and cursing Viktor Nikiforov’s name, he will remember that moment and (with dripping guilt) the delighted grin weighing heavy on the other side of the line when he spoke to Viktor. The bastard.) The reaction is palpable jealousy, and Chris feels like he needs to make amends now. Yuuri’s voice is quiet and careful, like he’s trying not to step on eggshells. He looks like he’s a minute away from crying, “I came because I thought it’d be better to tell you that I knew in person. I know you and Viktor are very private about your friendship because…”

Chris frowns, sitting up.

“I wasn’t trying to,” Yuuri sniffles, “I’m really sorry I imposed on you. I just thought maybe if I explained… It was dumb.”

“No, no, darling, continue,” he tries to be encouraging, feeling like an ass. That happens to him often. With Viktor, it’s fine. But Yuuri Katsuki is like a kitten, soft and precious. As a lover of and owner of cats, Chris deflates, feeling guilt gnaw at him raw. “Honest, you were doing great.”

“I thought maybe if it looked like I was pulling an industry favor you’d have a good excuse to do the show, but then I was here and I don’t actually know how any of this works. All I kept thinking about is how it’d probably mean the world to Viktor if you performed,” Yuuri rubs at his eyes. “I just. I didn’t. I want this show to be good. I want him to be happy with it.”

Chris sighs, “Whether it’s flawless or not, Viktor will still tear it to pieces in his private time because he’s an ass. I wouldn’t stress so much. Look at you, you’re a mess: Rule number 1 about being a musical legend in training, don’t smudge the mascara.”

Yuuri sniffles, staring up at Chris with wide, red-brimmed eyes before he collapses into sobs again the moment he sees black dripping on his fingers. “I’m so sorry. I ran out of water-proof this morning.”

“Yuuri,” Chris shakes his head, standing. It’s hard not to feel overwhelming affection for the tangled mess in front of him. “Okay, you know what, take off the blazer—”

“What?” Yuuri hugs himself, fingers digging tight into the fabric of the blazer. “No! I already said I’m not here for that!”

“Take off the blazer so you can relax. Now, drink your,” he pushes the word out with scrutiny, “your pop, and let me make some phone calls to my people and to Viktor’s people and I’ll see what I can do, okay? – I’m thinking if I make it about _you_ and not about Viktor, it’ll work fine. Yuuri Katsuki and Chris Giacometti on one stage, the two sexiest names in show business in a single performance, one night, when Yuuri Katsuki is expected to perform with a whip on stage? My people will be all over it.”

Yuuri blinks, tears finally stopping.

“Y-you’d do that? Really?”

“And you didn’t even have to take off your shirt,” Chris pats his thigh, but it’s a fraternal touch. In front of him is a man, but also an industry child – a babe that has been coddled and protected with love. It’s a strange type of mystery, but Chris presumes that the industry has tried to learn from the mistakes it made with Viktor. Maybe, if they all work hard, they can get this one right, maybe Yuuri Katsuki will be the next musical legend that doesn’t go running for the cliff at full-speed when he realizes fame is a monster that eventually eats you alive. “You’re such a pure soul, Yuuri. Don’t change. Okay?”

XII.

Celestino Cialdini remembers the first time he met Phichit Chulanont and Yuuri Katsuki. He’d been putting together a band back then – a very hush hush affair – when Phichit walked into auditions holding tight to Yuuri’s hand. “You have to try out separately,” Celestino had told them, not even bothering to focus his attention on them as he shuffled papers around. Yuuri Katsuki had looked at him scared from behind bottle thick lenses, and Celestino had sat up, surprised. Most kids around their age were barely growing into themselves, but Yuuri had had an innocence about him that was thoroughly intriguing. He had chewed thoughtfully, yelling out, “please tell me you’re not a couple. I can’t work with couples.”

“No way. He’s like my brother!” Phichit had chirped, tugging Yuuri closer.

“Well, which one’s going first?”

Phichit had gone first, blowing Celestino away with a simple song strummed on an acoustic guitar with hamster stickers. It had been an original, because even back then Phichit had had musicality and a deep-rooted respect for his own work. Celestino had thought then that he’d found his star, and then Phichit had dragged Yuuri back to the center of the stage, whispering something to him softly. Yuuri had nodded, wringing his hands.

“I don’t have all day,” Celestino had told him. “So, what am I seeing?”

“You’re about to see the next Viktor Nikiforov!” Phichit had clapped, and rushed off to hit play on an arrangement of Viktor Nikiforov’s Only you ( _Down, down, down, tell me your beautiful name, because my life is a game, and I want to play between your legs, and get lost in your hair. Because it’s only ever you, only you, only you, tell me your name so I can teach you how to say ooh, ooh, ooh)_. Yuuri’s voice had been shaky, but that didn’t exactly matter too much. Viktor Nikiforov’s voice was easy enough to replicate, the result of an entire generation of young kids trying to emulate his sound, but what no one could quite get right was the musicality expressed in the originality with which Nikiforov moved – sliding from one end of the stage to another, shuffling his feet, and spinning to the speed of a hurricane.

Celestino had sat up then and yelled, “hey kid. What’s your name?”

“Y—Yuuri.”

“Yuuri,” Celestino tasted the name, finding it simple enough. (He’d someday ask Phichit if he was willing to change his name, and Phichit would laugh at him, hug him, and tell him he was funny, before showing Celestino just why Phichit was going to make it, why he didn’t need the Hit Factory.) “Anyone ever told you that you could beat Viktor Nikiforov in a dance off with his own dance moves?”

Yuuri stares at him, flabbergasted.

And then Phichit had yipped, “Me!”

“You’re in. Both of you. But only because I'm damn tired of taking notes. My god, what are you, twelve? Please tell me your parents know you’re here?”

(Celestino has been waiting forever for this moment, for Yuuri to see that he was just as good, if not better than Viktor Nikiforov. This performance is everything, the culmination of years bringing up these boys into men and instilling in them confidence. Celestino has had many acts, but none feel like his as much as 3XO.

Phichit’s voice is smooth. In the darkness of the stage, it’s haunting as he begins with a mash-up of Viktor’s smoothest hip-hop. In the background, the large screen flickers through Viktor’s video in real time, changing as fast as the lyrics blend into each other to create a single, new song: _You’re on fire. Remember the feeling of my fingers when I’m gone. Don’t you ever leave me alone._ The crowd claps and whistles as Phichit begins to move into easy, familiar pop-and-lock-it steps.

In the foreground, strobe lights match the actual flickers of flames rising as Sara Crispino comes out singing along to the song, _You can’t stop me now. Sorry, sorry, baby. Who you think you’re playin’, playin’?_ And Celestino has to admit that this wouldn’t even be possible without Otabek’s amazing work and his ear for merging different hooks into a single base. The experience is electrifying and as Sara and Phichit finish their dance, they finally merge into a single sound, falling into a duet of Viktor’s Home: _Even when you li(i)e, I want to give you all my li(i)fe. Let me show you that I can provide, don’t fight me. Baby, come back home, can you come back home?_ (And Celestino laughs when Phichit diverges, making a joke as he sings, “Hey, Yuuri, can you come back home? Come on guys, where are you, Yuuri? Come back home.”) _Because this is love, and I’m falling numb, without the feeling of your body here, every m(o)oment, every single t(i)ime._

Sara chuckles, “Hey, hey DJ!”

The song begins to flicker in and out. 

_I’m crazy, crazy about you! Come back home. Can you come back home?_

_This is love, this is love._

Celestino watches as Viktor Nikiforov claps graciously, eyes set on both of them.

“And now, ladies and gentleman,” Sara cuts the song suddenly to the sound of a record spinning and whining. She flips the long train of her dress back, “please direct your attention to the second stage.”

Celestino worries at his bottom lip, watching as the lights dim again. All cameras should be locked on a white stretch screen where there are three shadows – Yuuri and his two usual dancers. The entire crowd gets on its feet immediately, as the three figures slowly dip and rise, hips moving in a single rhythm in a familiar dance to the sound smooth, decadent sound of Viktor Nikiforov crooning _Ooh, ooh_ in the background.

When the screen slides away with a gust of wind, the crowd grows only wilder as Yuuri comes out wearing the familiar black leather and mesh outfit that everyone easily recognizes from Nikiforov’s iconic _Ooh, ooh_ video. He carries a long whip in his hand, making it crack as he dances around it, until a dancer brings him out a chair. Mila Babicheva gets up from her seat and starts screaming, looking like she’s having an out of body experience. The mash-up Otabek has created is stunning. Celestino has seen Yuuri play around with this dance through the years. He’s memorized the dance within an inch of art, and he could practically fan his leg around the back blind. He makes a show of running his hands down the expanse of a well-muscled leg, singing: _Girl put on those high-heels, slip up those stockings, let me bill you later for the show_ _,_ just at the perfect moment when Christophe Giacometti makes his entrance to the funky sound of s _weet girl, become my dream girl, l-o-v-e, you can be my all, please don’t tell me no. Dream girl, my sweet (heart)._ In the mash-up, the back-up arrangement of Touch My Body adds spice to image of Yuuri wrapping the whip around Christophe’s waist, using it as leverage to pull him up and down with the shimmy of his body.

(And Celestino admits, bittersweetly, that Yuuri has slowly come into his own.)

On the third stage, Celestino is keeping a careful eye on Otabek on his DJ tower.

Nikiforov looks bored, and Celestino almost wishes he could punch the smug look on his face, because Yuuri has put everything on the line for this moment and he hates to even think that he might up with nothing to show for it by the end.

No one expects Yuuri to dance his way down the stage towards the crowd. He makes it over towards Mila Babicheva who hasn’t sat down once. Viktor Nikiforov barely looks over at Yuuri at all. But, it’s fine, because he’s not part of the show. Celestino grins widely when he sees Yuuri reach to cup Mila’s chin, coming close enough for her to use the microphone hidden by the very edge of his collar.

“Now help me sing,” he says.

And Mila breaks into perfect sync, belting out a set of beautiful high tones, “Viktor, _I just want to say, so wonderful."_

Behind Viktor, Leo de la Iglesia and another young starlet acapella with Mila (taking him completely by surprise), “ _so wonderful_ _._ _You’re so, oh, oh, oh. Oh, oh, oh._ ” 

“Hey, put your hands in the air,” Otabek commands from stage three, changing the music one more time to a high-speed dance track mash of Viktor’s most remembered sounds. But everyone’s eyes and all the cameras are on Yuuri still. “Hey, hey, Yuuri, how you feeling out there?”

“ _Fan-tas-tic_ ,” Yuuri says, turning to Yuri Plisetsky, “ _hey, hey, put your hands in the air_.”

“ _How you feeling out there?  Fan-tas-tic. He must be crazy if he thinks I’mma stop, hey (ey, ey, ey)_ _._ ”

Viktor Nikiforov looks completely floored when Yuri Plisetsky breaks into a seamless rendition of Fantastic¸ mirroring Yuuri’s dance moves with ease. It’s an incredible sight, with Yuri whispering almost at the exact same time, “Hey Viktor, _thank you, very, very much_.”

The idea behind the flash mob had been Yuuri’s idea. He’d been worried about not being enough to surprise Viktor. It seems to work (if Nikiforov’s face and the “Wow!” he lets out is any indication) as he holds Mila’s hand and dances his way down the corridors towards stage three, with so much energy that the entire room seems to be vibrating. Mila and Yuri help him drag people out onto the line for the stage as Otabek keeps spinning.  

Celestino doesn’t expect Nikiforov to follow, though, dragged along by Christophe. He easily makes his way to the stage, where Yuuri and the rest are already breaking the performance down into a nightclub scene. On the DJ tower, Otabek continues to spin, now with Yuri Plisetsky joining him to take over as he goes to meet up with Yuuri and Phichit for a final dance together.  Phichit had chosen that they should do Viktor’s Mr. Nice, Nice (K-I-S-S-I-N-G). The dance is a mix of fast shuffled movements with strong hip-hop elements, dips and spins, and flare.

Otabek croons out the familiar motto, “this is three for all, and all for one. This is 3XO.”

 _K-I-S-S-I-N-G._ _Mr. Nice, chu, you give kisses._ _But you don’t remember to who._ _K-I-S-S-I-N-G._ _So get crazy with it, get crazy with it_

(And Celestino will deny it forever, but he cries, seeing all three of his boys together on the same stage one more time.)

“Get ready for it,” Otabek warns, “get ready for it.”

The stage crowd breaks into a circle, as Phichit and Otabek enter into a seamless dance off to the sounds of Viktor Nikiforov's _Dare_. When it’s Yuuri’s turn to enter the circle, he easily emulates the dance from the music video, feet sliding from side to side at blink-rapid speed. No one expects when Viktor Nikiforov enters the circle, just as Yuuri is singing, “ _All of my life, too late, until you showed up with perfect time_.”

Celestino can see within a second the flicker in Yuuri’s eyes, like a long-lost memory. Fear isn’t something Celestino has seen plastered on Yuuri’s eyes in years. But Yuuri is a professional and on stage he’s another man entirely. So when Viktor sings back to him the lyrics to the 3XO song meshed in the background, “ _Hey, nice, nice, baby, when did you turn out so bad? Show me your best side_ ,” and easily breaks into the matching dance, Yuuri laughs.

(And Celestino knows first-hand that when Yuuri Katsuki laughs on a stage, the whole world falls to his feet.)

“I don’t think you remember how that goes, Mr. Nikiforov,” he teases, spinning around to drop down and shimmy his hips back up, circling around with expertise mastered from years of curating a set of moves that had earned Yuuri recognition as the owner of a body that moved with expert precision. Yuuri spins, just perfectly to sway up to lock eyes with Viktor, and it's an electrifying moment. Celestino is sure the media will be writing about it for weeks. 

Viktor simply plucks the microphone hanging close to Yuuri's lips, stepping closer to continue singing his own song, " _Let's not recover, come over, when your eyes lock with mine I knew it was over: If it's true that you want me, then step up and kiss me. With everyone watching. Dare you._ "

Yuuri steps back, rolling his shoulders as he sings back, " _You know I like you, closer and closer, I dare you, your big blue eyes can be my witness. Your eyes got me drunk, it's just a mature game, let's not recover, just come over._ "

Celestino watched as Viktor matched the moves with ease, the two falling into rapid succession changes between Dare and So Bad It’s Good. By the time it was over, it was obvious that Yuuri was the better dancer: Every flick of his wrist, spin and playful whisk of his hair feminine in a way that left the stage thirsty with want, and Celestino could only hope people wouldn’t think it was only the case because Yuuri was younger. Had Viktor Nikiforov been in his prime, he couldn’t have moved like Yuuri.  

(Celestino cries again. Minako says nothing, just hands him tissues from the box pressed tight against her chest.)

XIII.

Yuuri can’t believe he’s on stage, breathing heavy, next to Viktor Nikiforov, who is bowing in front of him in thanks. As soon as the red flash of the camera blinks dark and the host begins his typical speech welcoming the audience on television to stay tuned, Yuuri knows before he even sees them that the techies have started cleaning up the stage and setting-up for the next act. He turns to Viktor, ready to make proper conversation for once, when he hears: “You were great!”

“Ah, thank you, Chris,” he whispers, giving him a tight hug. “Thank you so much for doing this. And Viktor—”

Viktor Nikiforov is already five steps away from Yuuri with a lazy arm draped around Phichit’s shoulders. Yuuri can easily hear him say, “Phichit, I didn’t realize you had such an amazing voice. Like, wow! We need to collaborate on something _yesterday_. I mean it. I need you in my studio.”

And aren’t those all the things Yuuri has ever wanted to hear, now being whispered to someone else. He gulps hard, trying to pretend he’s proud of his friend. Phichit has always been like his brother. For years, Phichit has been overlooked, his music put on hold, and now here is his moment, and Yuuri can’t be happy for him, because Phichit’s big break is coming at the expense of Yuuri’s heartbreak. It’s silly. Yuuri knows he should be _over_ his big, fat crush on Viktor Nikiforov. Viktor is nine years older than Yuuri at any given time. He should let it go, but he can’t. He’s loved Viktor for so long, he doesn’t know that he could ever love anyone else.

“Your birthday’s next week, isn’t it?” Chris tries to engage him in conversation. Yuuri barely registers Beka approaching him, but still keeps walking in the opposite direction. Chris’ words echo behind him, “Yuuri, where are you going?”

“Yuuri,” Yuri Plisetsky says his name, still following behind him with a skip that seems so familiar. Yuuri can only think that this must be what he looks like to Viktor Nikiforov – so willing and hungry for his attention. Yuri’s interest is innocent, though, completely embedded in admiration (and it is certainly mutual, because Yuri is the next generation). Yuuri can’t help but consider the irony that something so synthetic as celebrity can have something as organic as a natural lifecycle. “Yuuri?” he tries again.

(And Yuuri decides selfishly that he might as well cut the kid a break, set him free from the heartache.)

He turns, serious, “Look, Yuri. I have to deal with some really important things, okay? I don’t have time for chitchat.”

Yuri looks shocked, face slack as if Yuuri’s just slapped him.

“I have another performance,” he says coldly, trying for that dismissive Viktor-like half-smile (the type he’d seen on so many music videos), “You understand how it is, right?”

Yuri Plisetsky is a strong boy. Yuuri knows he won’t cry or obsess that someone he looks up to decided not to talk to him then. That makes Yuri a better, newer, improved model to Yuuri. If Yuuri improved on Viktor by staying away from scandal, Yuri will improve on Yuuri by having tougher skin. And whoever comes after Yuri will bring something else to the table, anything to survive.

It's funny, Yuuri thinks. He’d never given much thought to the nature of things.

XIV.

“Oh Yakov,” Viktor croons as he slams the door to his manager’s door open. He slips in, shopping bags bouncing from his arms as he plops down on Yakov’s desk with a bright smile. Yakov gapes, amazed that Viktor has found an even more terrible disguise this time. There’s a poorly glued black mustache slipping from Viktor’s cheek as he says, “Guess what I’ve been doing!”

Yakov blinks, rubbing at his forehead, “Not going to practice for your birthday concert? – Georgi called. Vitya, he said you haven’t been to see him _once_ in the last week. That’s serious. While some people are willingly giving up Christmas to celebrate your birthday with you and an impressive array of celebrities, we still haven’t sold out the show. There’s been too much bad press recently with you free-wheeling all over the country instead of spending time in a studio or pretending you are. IGA’s getting worried. I’m getting calls about whether you’re going to cancel—”

“Of course I’m not going to cancel. And your job is to convince them that I’m not. Besides,” Viktor waves him off, pouting as he ripped off the do-rag hiding his hair, “I didn’t ask about what I _haven’t_ been doing. I asked you to guess what I _have_ been doing. And it’s not shopping, though I did do some shopping.”

“I can see that,” Yakov grouches, practically growling as he turns to check his phone again. He slams his hand on the desk. “It’s a little hard to convince the big sponsors that you’re not going to cancel your performance at your own birthday concert when I can’t seem to get even a video or photo of you in sound check or dance practice! We need more publicity.”

“I’m Viktor Nikiforov,” Viktor huffs. “I _am_ the publicity. Anything I do, anything I say, just because I’m me.”

“A grainy photo of you dressed like Tupac Shakur while buying an Armani tie is _not_ publicity. It’s disrespectful to the dead.”

“Yakov,” Viktor whines, slinging from the desk down to a chair. “Don’t be mean to me. I’ve been doing some thinking. You should listen to me.”

“Listening to you gives me a headache,” Yakov scoffs, checking his phone before slamming his hand on the table. “Damn it. Sara Crispino just had to drop out of the show. Her grandmother’s sick. The whole family’s going to Italy for the holidays. Now where are we going to find another big name act to fill in at the last minute?”

“If you listened to me, you’d find that I have the solution to your problem,” Viktor smiles brightly.

“Talk. But if you say anything stupid, I’m cutting up all your credit cards while you sleep.”

“My babies sleep with me, right under my pillow so I can dream of pretty things to buy. You’ll never get them,” Viktor sticks out his tongue. He drops his feet on Yakov’s desk, childishly shuffling his finger as he looks up at the ceiling. “I think we should ask 3XO to perform.”  
  
“Yuuri Katsuki,” Yakov nods, “It’s not a dumb idea. But how are we going to get 3XO when I can’t even Katsuki’s people to return my calls? I’ve been trying for weeks to get you two in a room together. Have you been ignoring me for weeks when I asked you to call Katsuki and ask him to sign up for the tribute concert? _Vitya._ ”

Viktor smiles, “I already thought of how to fix that, too. Just get me his handler’s number. I promise you I’ll get you 3XO.”

“And a performance by Yuuri Katsuki,” Yakov threatens with a sausage finger wagging at him. “Vitya, I mean it. Remember Sara was going to help you with part of your performance. We can fill her slot with 3XO, but someone has to take over your introduction. I don’t want a no-name.”

“Otabek Altin and Phichit Chulanont are hardly no-names, Yakov.”

“But they’re not Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Okay,” Viktor rolls his eyes, pulling out two ties from an Armani shopping bag. He grins brightly, “fine. Now, for the real reason I came here: Skinny black tie or blue with silver dots?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Yakov, language. You want me to get you Yuuri Katsuki, don’t you? – Then answer the question.”

XV.

“Yuuri!” Minako whirls into his bedroom with the force of a tornado. It’s exactly the type of innocuous force needed to get him out of bed. He’s been lounging, mourning his missed opportunity with Viktor Nikiforov for days, stewing without a shower to the point where Yuuri is certain he’s growing roots. She practically climbs on his bed, holding her cellphone high in the air. “Yuuri! I have a very special phone call for you!”

Yuuri peeks from underneath a mountain of blankets, “Minako, not now, please.”

“But Yuuri,” she whispers close to his ear, trying to pry her fingers into the edge of his blanket fort, “I have Viktor Nikiforov on the phone. He wants to ask you personally to perform in his upcoming birthday concert.”

Yuuri blinked, confused.

“He—he what?”

“He’s on the phone,” she repeats, thrumming with excitement. “Yuuri, you’re making Viktor _Nikiforov_ wait to talk to you on the phone. Take the call.”

Yuuri rips through his cocoon quickly, grabbing for the phone with shaking hands, “Uh, hello? This is Yuuri.”

 _“_ Yuuri,” Viktor says, voice cheerful and beautiful, just like Yuuri had always imagined in his dreams. His heart punches hard against his ribcage, like a reminder that he’s been nursing his bruises for weeks. Maybe Yuuri overreacted. Maybe Viktor was just trying to be polite, checking and thanking on everyone first having seen Yuuri in conversation with Chris. Yuuri left too quickly (and potentially disheartened one of his industry fans). “Yuuri, hello! This is Viktor, Viktor Nikiforov? I hope I didn’t wake you, but, you see, I kind of need a favor and you’re the only one who can help me. My very life is in your hands. You’ll help me, won’t you, Yuratchka? – I know you’ll take good care of me.”

“A favor from me?” Yuuri whispers, eyes locking with Minako, who is practically bouncing on his bed. He has Viktor Nikiforov on the phone right now, calling him nicknames and asking for his help. The moment feels surreal, and he digs his nails into his thighs. “What kind of favor?”

“Sara Crispino just had to drop my birthday show. If we can’t fill all the slots, I don’t know what we’ll do. You’re my last hope, Yura.”

Minako listens closely, reaching for a pillow to smother her squeals.

“What would you want me to do?” Yuuri asks, dazed.

“I need you to do something for me. Something very important.”

“I—I’d do anything for you, Viktor.”

“So sweet, Yuuri. I hoped you’d say that. Do you have time for lunch today? I’d like to discuss the details with you a bit more. In person. You know, get to know each other better, get a little closer, and build a little more trust in our relationship. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks you know. You’re a hard man to pin down, Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Uh, I’m in. I’m in New York at the moment. It’s not I wouldn’t want to, but I can’t get to California until late, late today. Maybe—”

“What a coincidence! I’m in New York myself at the moment. I had to pick up a few statement pieces for my show, just some jewelry. You know how it is. Are you still living in the apartment right below Chris? I think he mentioned that to me once. I can pick you up at noon. Or I could bring you lunch.”

Yuuri looks to Minako for help, unsure what to do. She plucks the phone from his hands, winking: “Mr. Nikiforov? I’m so sorry. My client had to take a superseding call from a sponsor, but I’ll happily plan logistics with you. Noon? Yes, of course! He’ll be ready, as will Mr. Katsuki’s representative, Celestino Cialdini, because this is about business, is it not? – Of course. Goodbye!”

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri would choke and trip for love any time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, loves, this is probably the last chapter from me for a while. I've been feeling really down about my writing this week and I'm taking a little bit of time to consider whether I want to continue writing for YOI at all or just take a hiatus for a couple of weeks to get over my mood. We'll see how it goes. ^^ Sending you all lots of love. End comments explain something about this chapter (as in ALL of the first part, so please do read).

XVI.

Viktor is born in the Soviet Union, not in Russia.

Russia is not a place he gets to know until 1993 when, at 16-years-old, he becomes the first international pop star to perform in post-Soviet era Russia. (Prior to then, his music is illegal in the country; it’s a reminder that he becomes King in a country that had long disowned him, much like his mother.) When Viktor looks back at that moment, he knows the choice to go to Moscow is the moment that crowns him a legend, even if the world doesn’t know it then, even if Yakov to date refuses to admit it was a good idea.  

(It’s really not a good idea. It’s a terrible idea. 

He’ll host two shows, only one in Moscow. They don’t sell well, and Yakov reminds him gruffly that they’d known all along this was a waste of financial resources – a child’s whim to come running to the motherland that only saw him a bastard American. In truth, Russia in 1993 is a country stitching itself together, people barely holding the pieces of social politics now crumbled with the hunger to survive. They sell a fifth of the seats and then start giving them away in street corners. Viktor cries in his hotel, wondering if his career has come here to die, like his father warned him: “I left a dying country with nothing but you in my arms, killed a life of misery so you could live, and now my son so ungrateful tells me he wants to go back? Why don’t you take that knife and stab me, instead? It will hurt me less.” He only feels vindicated when he runs into a set of street dancers copying some of his moves and discovers that there’s an entire group of kids his age and older that used to meet in secret in afterschool clubs, playing videos of him in secret and dancing their freedom.

A twenty-year-old sees him and cries, bringing him into a hug, and tells him about the time the KGB arrested him for dancing to Viktor’s music in public.

So, Viktor visits and speaks in crisp Russian with fans (some that have only ever heard his name), takes pictures with statesmen (a few stick in his mind for the smell of strong vodka and cigar smoke and the memory that they sometimes spit on him when they spoke), and gets to know that the KGB is real (not just the nightmares of his by then dead grandmother). He doesn’t realize he’s being followed until he comes to a trashed hotel room. When he returns to America, he smiles brightly, speaking into color and life the otherwise frigid winter he can’t shake from his skin after his visit to Russia. Yakov apparently sends a note to the President (of the United States), who invites him to the White House and gives him a medal, thanking him for being a cultural ambassador on behalf of the United States. Thereafter, Viktor will visit Russia again, but he won’t pretend he’s Russian anymore.)

He’s born in Moscow in the year 1977.

His grandmother will always tell him, until she dies, that it was the year of the bombings. It was the year the U.S. Embassy in Moscow burned down, too. She likes to make jokes in poor taste (about explosions and fire), broken-English trying to piece together some meaning from unrelated events. The bombings happen in January; the fire hits in August. Viktor is born in December. She still braids his hair when he’s nine and tells him, “you were always trouble.” And he knows not to even be hurt by her words, because she doesn’t mean them to be spiteful. Viktor knows, though, that his birth makes life difficult for his parents from the beginning.  

His mother had been a ballerina then. The moment she becomes pregnant, her life is over. She never stops telling him that he marked the beginning of her death. It’s a cruel thing to hear as a child. He starts dancing to earn her love, but he’s no good at ballet. Viktor moves like a tornado, spinning at speeds unseen, feet shuffling like lightning from one edge of the stage to the other. He defeats gravity. It’s not enough.

They leave to the U.S. when Viktor is a toddler. He grows up in New York City, a regular boy from Brooklyn. It’s the year 1980.

His father had worked with the government. It takes Viktor a while to figure out that his father had defected. On days when living in America are hard, his mother will yell at his father in Russian about things Viktor understands in fragments. It’s 1993 when he finds out three things: His father had a close friendship with a U.S. Embassy official (probably told secrets he wasn’t supposed to); his mother tried to get rid of Viktor when she first discovered she was pregnant; and they left running, as in his parents and his paternal grandparents can never return to Russia. His maternal grandmother is still alive in 1993, but barely. He finds her with pneumonia (and he loves her so instantly). His paternal grandfather is long gone. Viktor discovers that the scars on the body are as long-lasting and as invisible sometimes as those left in the heart.

Returning to Moscow is dangerous. But Viktor is untouchable.

For as long as he keeps singing, he’s invincible.

He releases _Stranger in Moscow_ on returning to the U.S.: _Here abandoned in my fame, armageddon of the brain, KGB was doggin’ me, take my name and just let me be._

XVII.

Yuuri doesn’t really know what to expect for lunch. Viktor makes it clear to Minako that it’s _his_ treat, so that’s clear, but, otherwise, Yuuri is nervous. (He’s had this dream since he was ten, looking up at Viktor Nikiforov like a comet that only came every three years with a new album.) Minako stuffs him into a pair of faded blue jeans and an effortless looking white t-shirt over which he can wear a slim black blazer. The only perk is that he doesn’t have to stick to his special diet, which means green smoothies can go die for a couple of hours – and nothing gives him greater joy, even if he’s starving now and the only reason Minako is being so kind is because Yuuri hasn’t eaten in days.

“Let me do most of the talking, okay, Yuuri? You focus on having fun. I’ll handle the business,” Celestino reassures him, clapping his shoulder firmly as they get into the stretch SUV limousine and head over to _Hot_ , an up-and-coming hot pop joint peppered daily with celebrity visitors. It boasts some of the best lunch food in town, with an infamous wasabi mayo that sends Yuuri scrambling with memories of his mother’s food.

The ride is short, giving Yuuri barely any time to get used to the idea that he is about to go on a business lunch with Viktor Nikiforov. He stares at his phone the entire time, reading with harmless jealousy as Phichit tries to reassure him that Viktor is _just a regular guy,_ which Phichit would now know because he’s had lunch with him, alone. Phichit didn’t need Celestino to go with him, as witnessed by half of Instagram thanks to the photos Phichit and Viktor had posted all over the platform.

When he arrives at _Hot_ , Celestino goes ahead and spots Viktor, who stands with a bright smile on his face like he’s seeing old friends. Technically, Viktor knows Celestino. They shake hands, go through pleasantries, and Yuuri just stands in the background, amazed that he’s, once again, incredibly close to Viktor Nikiforov, who is looking effortlessly beautiful in a slate gray suit with a cotton button up with the top buttons undone. Yuuri feels underdressed.

“Yuuri,” Viktor smiles, stretching out a hand. He cradles Yuuri’s hand like it’s something precious, sandwiching it between both his palms, and Yuuri notes the length of his graceful, perfect fingers. He wonders what it would feel like to have the pads of those fingers linger higher on his wrist. “I’m so glad you could make it. Here, sit next to me, please.”

And then Viktor pulls out his chair, waiting expectantly for Yuuri to sit. When he does, more than a little dazed, Viktor pulls his own chair closer to Yuuri, leaning close as he stares are him: “Now, what would you like to drink?”

The table already has the steaming hot pop in the middle, crowded with several plates filled with meats and vegetables. Viktor has carefully curated – or asked someone in his staff to do it – an impressive spread that makes Yuuri’s mouth water. He hasn’t really eaten much in the last week, and his stomach growls. Embarrassed, he flushes bright pink, and shortly gasps when he finds Viktor’s face is a mere inch from his own, filled with absolute concern.

“Yuuri, was that your stomach?” he asks.

“Ah, yes, sorry,” he whispers, staring down at his hands.

Viktor takes a set of chopsticks and takes one look at him like he’s a challenge. “Don’t be sorry! I’ll just have to get some food into you.”

(It’s surreal. Viktor Nikiforov is _feeding_ him, fingers grazing over his chin as he encourages Yuuri to open his mouth before stuffing him with vegetables or meats: “You like that? I spent a lot of time putting together a list of things I thought you might like. Rice?”

Yuuri just chews, eyes completely focused on Viktor. Celestino looks incredibly uncomfortable, and Viktor hasn’t even broached the subject of their lunch. Eventually, Celestino excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Viktor breathes close to Yuuri’s ear, “You know, I’m a little disappointed it’s not just you and me.”

“Really?” Yuuri asks him, swallowing hard, before almost choking on a little rice pellet. Viktor raises his arms for him before giving him a glass of water, and Yuuri grows red until he’s wheezing. “I mean, sorry, you wanted it to be just us?”

Viktor grins, eyes soft as he says, “Of course, Yuuri. I want to get to know you better.”)

When Celestino comes back, he’s all business. Yuuri can barely breath with Viktor’s thumb running circles over the pulse of his wrist under the table as he discusses at rapid fire speed with Celestino information on his commemorative show. By the end, Yuuri will perform twice – once with 3XO and once alone, just before Viktor comes on stage. He stops breathing then altogether. Viktor Nikiforov is going to take the stage. Viktor is going to surprise all his fans with a performance. And Yuuri gets to introduce him.

XVIII.

3XO isn’t _all_ in. Otabek doesn’t want anything to do with the show. He’s going home for the holidays (and he’s not going to change his plans just because Yuuri wants to impress Viktor Nikiforov). Phichit thinks Yuuri shouldn’t perform (whispering something or other about how Viktor looks like he has some designs on Yuuri, and it’s nothing wholesome): “Yuuri, I’m worried,” he says, a hamster rolling between his fingers, and Yuuri tries to focus on the fluffy creature as opposed to the sinking feeling of betrayal pooling in his stomach.

“Oh, so you should perform, but I shouldn’t?” he asks, raising a delicate eyebrow. He takes another hamster from the cage, trying to keep his own hands busy so he won’t fidget. This is the first time his friend has ever told him _not_ to do something. This isn’t how he thought things would go. Phichit was supposed to encourage him to go after Viktor; they were supposed to joke about the secret vision board Yuuri kept under his bed with cut-out articles from _Brides_ magazine. Instead, they’re fighting over Viktor. “I never thought there’d be a day when you would do something like this, Phichit.”

“What are you talking about?” Phichit asks, sounding almost angry. “Yuuri, you can’t tell me you don’t get weird vibes from Viktor, like he’s plotting something or – gasp! Of course! This is probably part of it. He’s trying to get in our heads. Otabek’s been thinking it from the beginning.”

“Why would he do that?” Yuuri snaps, taking off his sunglasses. “I think you just don’t want me to take the spotlight away from you, what with Viktor pushing so hard to sign you on his label. You know, if you had designs on Viktor yourself you could’ve just said instead of pretending and making fun of me all these years—”

“What?! I have never once made fun of you! I’ve teased you a little, but I’ve always been supportive. There is no friend more supportive than me, Yuuri. I did a love ritual with you back in 2005. We dug mud in the forest; I couldn’t get the dirt from my fingers for weeks, weeks! Oh my god, are you thinking that’s _why_ it didn’t work, because of me? Come on. You can’t be jealous. Yuuri, we’re friends, _best_ friends,” Phichit looks hurt, shoulders shaking, “I would never – you know I know how much, _what_ Viktor means to you. But that’s why I’m worried. I just think you should be careful. Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t have a very good reputation in the industry.”

“So it’s fine for you to collaborate with him, but not for me because he has such a bad reputation?”

“No one cares about what I do, Yuuri!” Phichit yells, voice hitching as he heaves. “No one cares. I’m _not_ Yuuri Katsuki! So I have to believe that if he’s plotting something, it’s to get at you. You don’t think I’m sick of always having to protect you from horrible people? – Oh my god. No. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”

Once the words are out, they slap Yuuri like cold water. And for the first time, he can see that Phichit really believes that. Yuuri can feel the tears burning his eyes before he even has time to grab for his sunglasses. He deposits the hamster into the cage, whispering acridly, “well, now I know how you _really_ feel.”

“Yuuri, no,” Phichit sighs, “Don’t go. You’re misunderstanding things.”

Yuuri leaves anyway, making sure to slam the door on his way out.

XIX.

Georgi is confused when Viktor tells him that he should work with Yuuri on his performance.

The idea, as he understands it, at least, is for Yuuri to bring an unsuspecting audience member on stage to give them a very personal dance, and then Viktor will come on stage to start his own performance. Georgi refuses at first: His job is to help _Viktor_ get his steps in tiptop shape for his own performance – a job made only more impossible by the fact that Viktor won’t show up to practice (due to some diva-like complex that he doesn’t _need_ to practice), no matter how hard Yakov elbows him to go. But then Georgi meets Yuuri, and his world changes forever.

“Ah, Mister Popovich! It’s such an honor; I’ve studied so many of your choreographies,” he says, practically bowing as he shakes Georgi’s hand. It’s shocking to have someone ready for practice and even early. It breaks Georgi’s heart, and he almost considers crying, except for when he remembers he’s wearing mascara. He has suffered so much abuse at the hands of Viktor. Obviously, Viktor doesn’t understand his genius. The young generation _will_ remember him, though.

Yuuri Katsuki is like a sponge, hungry for direction. He’s such a quick-study, taking word by word everything Georgi tells him. At some point, Georgi does cry, and Yuuri pats his shoulder: “Was I that bad? Don’t worry! I can do better!” And Georgi only cries harder because Yuuri Katsuki is a little ray of sunshine, a wholesome virgin island in a sea of industry wolves.

“So, remember that the audience member won’t see you. They’re going to have a hood over their head. Their hands should be tied, but it’ll be a loose knot, so you might get a big surprise during the show. Don’t let hands throw you off,” Georgi tells Yuuri as they take a long break to hydrate. “Have you figured out your other performance yet?”

Yuuri nods, smiling brightly, “I’m going to sing Listen. You know, _listen, to the song here in my heart, a melody I star, but can’t complete._ ” He leans back against the rail, looking at the ceiling, “I used to listen to that song all the time when I was fourteen.”

“That’s a hard song,” Georgi whistles. Viktor’s range in Listen is impressive. Georgi’s never really heard Yuuri Katsuki sing live before, but he’s polite enough not to ask if his range will allow for the song, or if he’s going to need an arrangement. “Did you already get your choreography down for the performance?”

“I guess, no,” he whispers, a little embarrassed. “I think Minako will take care of it.”

Georgi clasps his shoulder, “Well, you know, we’ve got thirty minutes – we could play around with some things? Nothing fancy, but I could give you some pointers to make the whole thing more, uh, _Viktor_.”

Yuuri’s eyes shine so brightly that Georgi thinks his heart stops.

“Y—you’d do that for me?” Yuuri throws his arms around Georgi, hugging him tightly, “Thank you so much! I promise I’ll be a quick study. Let’s start right now!”

(The first full rehearsal is always the most chaotic.

Georgi isn’t surprised to find that Yuuri Katsuki most _definitely_ has the range to perform Listen: With his hair slicked back and wearing a fitting white suit, Yuuri looks like a dark-haired angel as he steps under the spotlight, arm stretched out until he reaches the microphone stand.

His hand barely cradles the microphone, stepping up to press flush against the stand as his voice slowly gains strength. _Listen, I am alone at a crossroads. I’m not at home in my own home._ Georgi rests by the side of the stage, watching mesmerized as Yuuri sings with just as much vigor and pain as if it was the last curtain call. Dancers and other performers lowly come out from their burrows. It’s strange for an artist to choose to perform at full capacity. Typically, singers might mimic or whisper their songs, hoping to save their vocal chords the strain of an opening night show. But Yuuri seems like he has something to prove.  

“Oh my god, is that Yuuri Katsuki?” Anya bumps into Georgi’s back, rollers still on her head as she inches to see. “I had no idea he could sing like that! Get it, baby!”

 _“I’m more than what you made of me, I found the voice you gave to me!_ ”

“What’s going on?” Yakov grouches, coming to join them at the sidelines.

Georgi spots Viktor pushing his way between the crowd of dancers now entranced by the sight of Yuuri belting out his performance. He smiles, elbowing Yakov so he, too, can see as Viktor rushes to the technicians, ordering them to fix the sound system. Viktor did always like _loud_ and Yuuri is definitely willing to give it to him right now: “ _A melody I start but I will complete._ ” Georgi feels something stretch in his heart as he leans into Anya, watching Yuuri slowly kneel under the weight of the tones coming like an onslaught of waves. The lights slowly dim, flashing into soft hues of blue and violet reflecting with accents over him.

As much as Viktor upsets Georgi on a regular basis, he can’t deny his genius. Viktor knows how to put on a show. He knows how to take diamonds and polish them to perfection. Within seconds, he takes a magic wand and turns Yuuri from a fae to a myth. It’s a surprising transformation.

“Wow,” Anya sighs, something longing in the edge of her voice. “I used to think they didn’t make them like that anymore. Maybe that’s the last one we’ll ever see.”

Georgi nods, equally in awe, “With some luck, we don’t mess this one up.”

Yakov hums, his jaw set as he watches Yuuri flush brightly to the sound of claps and whistles from the staff. Georgi focuses on Viktor, smiling when he sees his friend clap from behind a couple of flustered technicians not yet used to Viktor’s rushed moments of inspiration.)

XX.

Phichit finds Yuuri sitting in the sixth row, sitting right next to Sara Crispino, who is talking to Georgi Popovich animatedly. Georgi is sitting in the fifth row, legs stretched out on some free seats as he turns to talk to them. Finding an empty spot next to Yuuri, Phichit slips in easily, whispering, “Hey.” He nudges Yuuri carefully with his elbow, hoping it’s enough to begin the apology train. Yuuri turns to him, eyes clouded with uncertainty, and Phichit knows it’s going to be up to him to start: “You were amazing.”

“Thanks, Phichit,” Yuuri gives him a small smile. “I’m—I’m really sorry.”

“Me too. I was doing a lot of thinking after we talked and,” Phichit reaches for his friend’s hand to give it a gentle squeeze, “one for all and all for one, right? No matter what happens, I’m glad we’re getting to do this together.”

Yuuri nods, “Same here. I mean, can you believe we’re actually here?”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Georgi interrupts them, a teasing tone underlying his voice, “I think you’re going to like this performance.”

Sara giggles, leaning closer to Yuuri, “You’re a fan of _One Night Only_? I didn’t peg you for a disco revival type.”

“V—Viktor’s going to perform?” Yuuri gapes.

“Geesh, now you’ve got him all excited for nothing, Georgi,” Sara sighs, patting Yuuri’s shoulder. “Viktor rarely performs at full capacity for practice, at least not for the first live call. Oh, that’s Chris. Hm. Are they switching it up to _Hard to Say Goodbye_ , first? That’s strange. I thought Engagement #1 wasn’t able to make it today.”

Georgi rolls his eyes, “For the one line he’s going to sing? I guess Viktor and Chris decided to go ahead with it, or Yakov told them to get their asses up there.”

Anya slides in to sit next to Georgi then, “Word is that they’re doing this one like it’s going live.”

“Ooh,” Sara claps, knocking shoulders with Yuuri. Phichit knows Yuuri doesn’t deal well with being teased, but right now he doesn’t even seem to notice. He only has eyes for the stage as the lights dim. “I wonder if he got a little _inspiration_ today.”

“Viktor? Doubt it,” Georgi sighs.

Phichit sits back, watching as the familiar, happy tune of old school Motown echoes through the room. Christophe Giacometti comes into view thanks to a spotlight as he begins to sing the first couple of lines, “ _We didn’t make forever, we’ve each got to go our separate ways._ ”

The next line is lost to the void left behind by the missing third participant. Slowly, another spotlight appears as Viktor Nikiforov begins to walk towards Chris, hand stretched out dramatically, even as he stares out towards the non-existing audience. When he sings, a crowd slowly begins to form. It’s a rare occurrence to have Viktor sing live now, “ _We’ve been together a long time, we never thought it would end_.”

“ _We were always so close to each other_.”

“ _You were always my friend_.”

The dance is a simple step sequence – a sway and snap that emulates the old-school elegance of an era long gone. Next to him, Yuuri is already standing, amazed as he sees Viktor sing the song with which he’s closed off hundreds of concerts. Phichit knows this is a special moment. Yuuri has never seen his idol sing this live. It’s a nice compromise: By doing the last number – a little two minute feel good tune – Chris gets to participate without the pressures of a full performance and questions he might not be able to answer.

As they begin to wave in sync, Chris takes advantage of the end of the refrain to say, “Yuuri, come up here. We need a third voice.”

Yuuri blanches, shaking his head furiously as he begins to consider sitting down. Next to him, Sara whispers, “go!”

“No, no, I’m—I couldn’t,” Yuuri says, completely flustered.

As the music continues, Viktor talks into his microphone, practically ordering when he says, “Yuuri, come here.”

“Okay,” Yuuri replies automatically, taking a step forward without thinking. Georgi winces at the same time as Phichit (and Sara exclaims, “Oh my! Yuuri!”) when they see Yuuri roll over the chair and slam to the row in front of him, right onto Georgi’s legs. He recovers quickly, staggering to get up and try to climb over the next seat when Georgi pushes him to take the aisle.

Phichit chuckles as he sees Yuuri run. He makes it to the stage just in time to get a microphone and take Viktor’s hand to jump on stage. He easily joins into his portion, eyes dazed as he sings, “ _You know I’ll always love, you know I’ll always care, and no matter how far I may go, in my heart you will always be there_.”

(And isn’t that just so _kind_ of Viktor to give former Engagement #1 the line in the song in which he would be expressing undying love to Viktor. Typical. Georgi even agrees, salty as he shares stories of things he’s heard and seen. Phichit grows only more concerned by Viktor’s reputation.

He almost vows to punch Viktor, though, when he hears him cut Yuuri off and practically throw him to second row as back-up.)

The dance sequence returns with a side sway. Yuuri barely even notices that he’s copying Viktor, but staring straight at him. Viktor keeps singing, large, blinding smile on his face as he magnanimously rests a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder to spin him around to face in the proper direction. Sara facepalms as they watch Viktor have to help Yuuri face _away_ from him during the entire performance. Chris looks naturally amused. At the fourth direction change, he takes Yuuri under his care.

By the end of the song everyone is clapping, again, and Viktor has already stepped to the edge of the stage to drink in the claps like Tinkerbell. Yuuri looks lost as Chris wraps an arm around him, pulling him towards stage left.

“Do you think he’ll go all out for his solo sessions, too?” Anya asks Georgi loud enough for all of them to hear.

“Hm, probably. If we get Yuuri to face slam over two rows? – Definitely.”

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn’t know, Michael Jackson was actually the first international pop-star to perform in post-Soviet-era Russia in 1993. (I did not know that before writing this.) Before then, it really had been illegal to purchase his songs in the Soviet Union and, later, Russia. 
> 
> There's an interesting CNN article written by a person that /was/ picked up by the KGB for doing something with his music in public. Apparently, young people did resist by finding his music videos and performances and trying to emulate the dance moves and use them as inspiration. Imagine having to have a secret club to enjoy pop music. 
> 
> The political history of the tour and performance itself is crazy fascinating, too (there's a documentary). Apparently, Michael Jackson couldn't sell all the tickets to some of his concerts in Eastern Europe, but especially in Russia, because the cost was too high for the population -- really detailing the state of economics. So, what did he do? Start giving tickets away to fill the stands. I have so much history on this: I'm incredibly fascinated, so if anyone wants to learn about my research, hit me up on tumblr at CuttleMeFishWrites. 
> 
> Stranger in Moscow is a real song by Michael Jackson. It ends with Russian words that translate into (per lyric websites):
> 
> [KGB interrogator (Russian to English translation):]  
> "Why have you come from the West? Confess! To steal the great achievements of the people, the accomplishments of the workers..."
> 
> Amazing when inspiration for portrayals of characters ends up being a little more perfect than envisioned, right?
> 
> The two events mentioned as happening in 1977 really did happen in 1977.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri begins to concoct a plan of his own.

XXI. 

**[Jezebel] Yuuri Katsuki Writes a Love Letter to Detroit**

Yuuri Katsuki keeps showing us why we love him: The Prince of Pop took a moment out of his busy tour preparation schedule (after already piling on a couple of tribute concerts for the legendary Viktor Nikiforov and organizing a showstopping performance at the TPCs) to bring Oprah into his world back in Detroit (no, this isn't like the time when he was sixteen and took us on a tour of his former home and the 35 posters of Viktor Nikiforov in his bedroom,) and show that he really is the hardest working man in show business. 

The special two-hour event titled  _On Love: The Experience_  premiered last night and will play again over the weekend on Oprah's OWN channel, sending a big nod to Katsuki's most recent album ( _On Love: Eros_ , called _Eros_ for short,) and upcoming tour ( _The Yuuri Katsuki Experience_ ). The interview is filled with gold nuggets from Katsuki's childhood and early years with 3XO. Stans will probably riot when they see outtakes of Yuuri getting a piggyback ride from Otabek or a pie in the face from Phichit and realize there will be never be release straight to DVD copies. But if you're looking for ONLY cute videos and baby pictures, look away. This is Yuuri Katsuki ALL GROWN UP edition (spoiler alert: it's really hot). 

Oprah kick starts the whole ode to Yuuri Katsuki, future saint in spandex, saying: 

 

> I first met Yuuri Katsuki after seeing him perform in London. I found him backstage, dabbing his face with a towel just before a group of teenage girls came in screaming and jumping. Only later did I find out they were kids from the Make A Wish Foundation. 

Nice going, Oprah. Make us all feel dirty for trying to ignore cancer kids over the sight of Yuuri Katsuki, piston hips in action, biting a whip. Bless whoever did the final sequence shots. 

Katsuki, who is incredibly private, had a candid conversation with the television personality, taking her through a tour of Detroit into some of the city's most depressed neighborhoods, including where he grew up in the Northwest portions of the city. 

 

> People don't know, so many people think, well, Detroit's a medium city, it's not that bad, not like New York or Los Angeles, but those cities aren't dangerous overall. There's a difference between having dangerous neighborhoods and being a dangerous city. The truth is that crime and poverty doesn't look like what America thinks, it's not all high-rise urban tenements; it's single-family homes and hunger and desperation, amid vacant lots, a lot of vacant lots. Detroit has 35,000 empty buildings. It's a ghost town in some parts. That's what violence does, that's what economic violence looks like.  

The pop star didn't hold back any punches, sitting in his modest family home, where his parents still live with his sister – only now in a nicer part of town. The family ultimately kept Katsuki's childhood home, but it now acts as a foster care facility for five teenagers, who attend the Toshiya Institute of Dance in a remodeled dance studio. It looks like an oasis of love and fun in a grey city. Of course, as any serious fan knows, Katsuki named the studio after his father, who encouraged him to dance. 

But despite the nice family moments and (adorable chubby) baby pictures, Katsuki seemed determined to shout his love for Detroit, sounding more like a Statistician (which, spoiler alert: He is - from MIT, if you didn't know…) and less like a Pole Dancing God(TM):

 

> In Detroit, the census tracts show that poverty is rising. The number of areas where 40% of people live in poverty has tripled in the last fifteen years, no, really, look it up, from 51 tracts to 184. Detroit has the highest incidence of poverty. We have the second poorest area in the entire country. I don't ever see a President stopping by Detroit, I don't ever see people standing up for these areas -- what happens to our communities here? I’m not going anywhere any time soon. I was born and raised here. I refuse to be buried anywhere else.

And if you thought cinnamon roll Yuuri could never be mad, think again:

 

> I am [mad]. People ask me, why do you stay in Detroit, Yuuri? Move to Los Angeles. Move to New York. But I'm here for them. I was them. These kids need to know there is an alternative to violence, that there is opportunity, but they also need to see tangible change. I'm here for them.

Oprah took Katsuki into Flint, Michigan (where he was received with tears) after his sister secretly let Oprah know his brother has been funding under anonymity close to $750,000 and counting in water bottles:  

 

> He'll never tell you he's doing all of this, buying water bottles, paying bills, writing checks to fans with high health bills, paying college tuition statements, or dropping into hospitals. I know my brother. It's really about helping out; he's never called anyone to take a picture or anything, but he deserves the recognition, so much. It's the stuff that keeps him up at night. He'll see something and call me at 2 am and say, 'Mari, what can I do?' and I'll tell him to go to sleep, but I also know we have to strategize to keep him from a panic attack.

Of course,  _On Love_  also has all the juicy questions you (okay, we) want to know, like, when can we expect Katsuki to take a damn seat (please, just sit the fuck down already, I'm exhausted just looking at you,) and hopefully give us the closest America will ever have to a royal wedding, considering Katsuki-favorite Viktor Nikiforov can't seem to get over eternal bachelorhood:

 

> **Katsuki:** I'm not ready to take a break [from work]. I'm not sure how I feel about settling down and getting married and all that. I'm a year from 30, so it's all on my mind, all the time. My Mom is always, like, Yuuri, you need someone. But the thing is, I'm not just looking for anyone. I'm looking for someone that gets me, gets my music, gets what I'm doing here.
> 
> **Oprah:** So, you need to find a superstar that's in Detroit or willing to relocate to Detroit?
> 
> **Katsuki:** Or at least vacation in Detroit! (laughs)

So, the lesson to learn is Yuuri Katsuki is currently married to Yuuri Katsuki (and no one is more worthy of Yuuri Katsuki than Yuuri Katsuki), and that's probably not going to change any time soon. Unless Viktor Nikiforov proposes with another poster. Fingers crossed…! Also, donations are currently being taken for the Give Yuuri a Chair campaign (if you don't know what this is, just check Twitter). Boy needs to take a sit and put his feet up for a change. Maybe someone can enlist Nikiforov into donating a foot massage, philanthropic heart he has and all?

 .

**[Jezebel] Adorable Toddler Mistakes Viktor Nikiforov for Disney Prince**

Anyone still remember when Viktor Nikiforov lent his face and voice to play a cartoon, dragon-taming fairy prince in Disney’s musical _Tales of Ages_? Yeah, okay, no, me neither. But, apparently, a Los Angeles toddler does and is here for it! No, seriously. Little kids still love tights and braids.

Two-year-old Anita Gonzales was walking down an unidentified street with her mother when Anita spotted the megastar while he was filming for Mila Babicheva’s music video for _Swish Swish_ – you know, the song where Leo de la Iglesia raps and King VikNik sings, literally, two lines? _Swish, swish, bish!_ Anita, who carries everywhere a children’s book summary of the book her dad dug up from some thrift store, ran under the security lines calling VikNik by his Disney name, Prince Valiant. I know. I need tissues, too.

[Picture of Viktor Nikiforov hugging Anita.]

Can someone please marry VikNik already and give him a kid? I VOLUNTEER!

VikNik reacted in typical VikNik-fashion TM not even bothering to finish filming before dropping on his knees to receive the toddler with a big hug COMPLETELY IN CHARACTER. Yes, I repeat, Viktor Nikiforov started pretending he was a fairy prince (if you laughed, you’re a horrible person; if you snorted, take a shot). What a struggle for a King! Anita’s parents reported to local news that she had the best half-hour ever, getting pictures, showing off her book, and asking VikNik why he cut his hair and where was Princess Honeycomb. Yeah, VikNik, where _is_ Princess Honeycomb, huh? Anyway, Anita will keep getting all the deets (call us!) in a special visit to the magical estate known as Villa Vedici, where she’s been promised a special audience with King VikNik and his zoo – proving one more time that there’s a reason why VikNik Stans love their King (because, if you didn’t know, he’d pretend to be a Disney character for them any time, any day).

In case you need proof, here’s video evidence of Viktor Nikiforov duetting with Anita, aka the new Princess Honeycomb, in her debut performance of _We Got This_ from Disney’s _Tales of Ages_.

**.**

**[BuzzFeed] The 10 Most Awkward Times Yuuri Katsuki Subtly Declared His Love for Viktor Nikiforov as Channeled by Dogs**

The best, cutest, and most cringy maybe love declarations probably ever.

 

  1. The time he took a television crew into his childhood bedroom to show off his 35 Viktor Nikiforov posters and limited edition _Agape_ figurine.



 

  1. The time he was trying to sober up in a playground by drinking coffee from a Viktor Nikiforov mug and speculating about Viktor’s shoe size on film. Ahem.



 

  1. The time he was so excited to stand behind Viktor at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, he did an actual backflip on camera while Viktor was giving an interview.



  

  1. That one time when the Grammys sat Yuuri next to Engagement #2 and he kept throwing some serious shade.



  

  1. When in his Grammys acceptance speech for Song of the Year, he first thanked Viktor for giving him a lifetime of inspiration and, at an afterparty, admitted he wrote the song by pretending he was breaking up with Viktor in his head.



  

  1. When his bandmates filmed him talking in his sleep about how much he loved Viktor Nikiforov while kissing his, uh, dog? _Smooches!_



  

  1. That one night when he threatened to “cut a bitch” on Twitter if anyone said anything bad about Viktor Nikiforov (I’m talking to you Perez Hilton!). Ever.



  

  1. When he missed his seat at a charity event because he was too busy trying to take a sneaky whiff of Viktor’s hair.



 

  1. The time MTV Cribs surprised him and he was wearing tights with Viktor’s face on his ass. And he didn’t even change.



  1. When he filmed a music video in which he pole-danced for a Viktor look-alike, singing, “It’s just desire, you cannot waste it, but if you want it, then won’t you taste it.” We can’t even find a dog gif fitting enough, so have some confused dogs instead.



 

XXII.  

“Can you stop playing it?” Phichit groaned, hiding his head under a pillow in the hotel room. This was the fortieth time Yuuri was watching the same video of Viktor Nikiforov – because it was always Viktor – singing with a toddler in the middle of a Los Angeles street to a crowd of bystanders.

“I can’t,” Yuuri whispers, peeking under the pillow to give Phichit’s one-eyed stare a sheepish smile, just as the video plays all over again. Anita’s baby voice filters through the first verse. “It’s so cute. I have no immunity to Viktor Nikiforov doing cute things, especially with little kids, you know that. Just, take my phone?”

“Gladly,” Phichit huffs, kicking off his blankets to take Yuuri’s phone. He extends his hand expectantly, when suddenly he hears the printer humming to live. Yuuri hands over his phone with a tight-lipped smile. Phichit glares at him, saying, “Did you just print the article?”

“Just the picture,” Yuuri confesses, running to protect his newest addition to the growing traveling pile of Viktor Nikiforov candid photos. For someone that is known for loving his fans so much, Phichit wonders why Viktor can’t just give a little loving to his friend. Yuuri needs to be put out of his misery, soon. “I need it for my vision board.”

“You’re carrying around a vision board?” Phichit gasps, but then relaxes. With a smile, he says, “Ha, well, there’s nothing to use as glue.”

The door clicks open just then and Otabek peeks inside, holding all the contraband inside his jacket. Yuuri beams, still holding the picture tight to his chest. “I got the stuff,” Otabek says, pulling open the flap of his leather jacket to show them a bag of Chinese food. He sets it on the desk, and then slips a hand into his jacket pocket to throw a pack of double-stick tape at Yuuri. “That’s what you wanted right?”

“Yes!” Yuuri grins, sticking his tongue out at Phichit before he drops on his knees to pull out the newest vision board project from under his bed. Otabek almost chokes on his own spit. He coughs repeatedly. “Perfect,” Yuuri purrs, practically ripping the tape with his teeth to plaster a photo of Viktor Nikiforov with a child to the other random assortment of magazine cut-outs detailing Yuuri’s dream wedding (and marriage). Front and center is a recent picture Yuuri managed to take with Viktor, thanks to Minako’s bullying, at the last rehearsal for Viktor’s birthday concerts.

“Otabek!” Phichit yells at their friend. They had made a deal. Yuuri needed tough love now to get him through these moments of extra special obsession with Viktor. “I thought we both swore we weren’t going to keep on supporting his infatuation.”

“He said he needed sticky tape for his booty shorts!” Otabek defends himself, pulling out a tub of fried rice. He sits on the age of the desk. “Yuuri,” he says, voice deep and showing his obvious disappointment. It’s the type of growl that works very well on Yuuri’s bodyguards, which is why Otabek is the first option, always, to sneak in all the foods Yuuri can’t otherwise eat, especially while on tour. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t, though,” Yuuri says innocently, eyes shining as he admires his handy work. “I do need these to keep my ass in place in my short-shorts. Tape just happens to be good for a lot of things. Think of it as multitasking! Guys, why does he look so good with a baby in his arms? – I feel like that shouldn’t be so hot. It shouldn’t be, right?”

“You don’t deserve the fried wontons,” Otabek tells him dryly, hugging the bag of food closer to his side. “We should confiscate your vision board.”

“No!” Yuuri gasps, sitting on it. “I need it. The new moon is coming up and Yuuko said I’m going to need inspiration for the next ritual. You guys, I have never been so close to finally seducing Viktor Nikiforov. Now that I actually have a picture of us together—”

“Why not just ask him out?” Otabek sighs. “I mean, I think it’s a terrible idea and there’s a reason Viktor Nikiforov can’t seem to keep a fiancé long enough to have an actual divorce, like a normal rock star, but, seriously, playing mystical games with your personal Hollywood hoodoo astrology queen sounds like an even worse idea.”

“Yuuko is a good friend and a total professional. There’s a reason she’s the Madonna of the Stars to the Stars,” Yuuri scoffs, securing his vision board under his bed before going over to the bag of food (although not before apologizing quietly to fake Viktor for wrinkling him up with his thighs and promising to smooth him out so they don’t end up married _and_ needing botox). Otabek arches an eyebrow warningly. Yuuri seems completely unbothered as he says, “I’m not scared of you, you know. I remember you before you became cool. You used to collect teddy bears and give us piggyback rides. You’re a big softie, Beka. And I love you. But I will fuck you up if you stand between me and my only chance to stuff my face with deep fried dough with pork.”

“Damn, Yuuri!” Phichit laughs.

Otabek rolls his eyes, handing him the bag of food. He smiles fondly, “You’re still the same, Yuuri. I don’t know how fame hasn’t gotten to that big head of yours, or given you enough of an ego to determine that you _can_ do better than Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Blasphemy,” Yuuri gasps, chewing around two wontons at the same time.

XXIII.

Yakov Feltsman remembers the first time he ever met Viktor Nikiforov.

Viktor is ten. He’s already tall for his age, with lanky arms and long legs to match his platinum hair. If Yakov is honest, Viktor’s not a cute child, but his face is beautiful in the strange, ethereal ways supermodels tend to have odd bone structures that look more like modern pieces of art than classic sculptures. It’s made all the worst by the fact Viktor is crying, fat rolling tears streaming down his cheeks as his whole body shakes and quakes with the strength of hiccup-like sobs coating thick, amateurish Russian complaining about something or other that Yakov can’t piece together.

“Sorry, sorry,” Viktor’s father comes on stage, gripping his son’s arm with so much strength that Yakov feels the shake more than sees it. He whispers something in harsh tone to his son, pushing him to the center of the stage: “He sings, he will sing for you now. He knows the song you sent very well.”

“I have a lot of singers already,” Yakov waves him off dismissively, growing tired of the flood taking place on his stage. Viktor has eyes like the sky – expansive, grey, deep, a storm just starting in the silence of King’s Theater.

“Not like this one. He dances, too. Right, Viktor?” Mr. Nikiforov says, desperation clear in his voice. Yakov has seen this too many times – parents with aspirations bigger than the depth of their pockets, with children whose talent cannot fill the hunger of the ticket box. Yakov’s job is to manage; he’s not in the business of managing parents, though it’s starting to feel that way more often than not. “Look, just go.”

Mr. Nikiforov yells at his son, turning his eyes to Yakov, “no, no, now, really now.” – And he runs off stage, leaving the shaky boy to the mercy of the bright lights making beads of sweat pool on his brow. Viktor seems to recognize he has no choice. He sings, arm wrapped tight around his stomach.

(Yakov thinks that hearing Viktor sing is like watching gold thread being spun. There’s this strange pain etched in Viktor’s vocal chords. It’s heavy with the promise of stories a ten-year-old boy shouldn’t know, about love, and life, and death, and grief. He notes that the boy has a good voice. He writes it down, or maybe he forgets. It’s so easy to forget, because watching Viktor dance is like seeing lightning strike every time he moves.

He thinks then that Viktor Nikiforov is bottled up lightning, thrumming with the strength of the beat wrapped like thick rope around his bones, cutting into the very make-up of every layer that digs up his body – from the flicker of fire kindled by the strike in his muscles to the ashes grounding him to the floor and the smoke elevating his soul.

It’s an experience. People pay for an experience.  

Yakov watches, thinking back to the storm brewing in Viktor’s eyes, the rain pooling at the edge of his eyes. With every spin and shuffle of his feet, Viktor becomes a tornado. Yakov is pulled in by the strength of a baby hurricane. He watches Viktor become electricity, and he thinks – _together we can light up the world._

Yakov never stops thinking that, either, not even when he’s in a hospital room, watching IVs curl around Viktor’s hands and arms like shackles, like a big _fuck you_ , because maybe to get Viktor to light up the world, he had to set him on fire.)  

When it’s all done, Viktor runs and proceeds to throw up over the edge of the stage.  

Yakov clenches his jaw, closing his eyes.

“Jesus,” he growls, rubbing at his forehead. “You brought me a sick kid? What’s wrong with you?”

(But when Viktor panics and starts looking around for something to clean, Yakov can’t keep up the façade of Big Time Producer and Manager angry at a boy so desperate for love that he would throw himself over vomit to earn it, or maybe to keep himself from losing it. When Yakov comes over and rests his hand on Viktor’s shoulder and squeezes, the ocean looks back at him, deep and lost.

“You have stage fright?” he asks, throwing a stone to see how deep it can fall.

“Y—yeah,” Viktor whispers.

“Those are the type of things you’ll need to tell me as your manager,” he hums, reaching for his handkerchief to dab at Viktor’s mouth. And when he looks back, the ocean turns into a sunrise.)

Yakov thinks a lot about the first time he ever met Viktor Nikiforov. He thinks about it through the years, watching Viktor overcome nausea for hunger – years of never feeling full sending him on a spree to eat the world.

Viktor opens like a flower at the first drop of love, like a desert parched for water: Viktor accepts love easily, washing over his lovers with the strength of a tsunami. He pulls them in like the moon, spinning like a tornado to keep them entertained, flipping backwards to turn into a table to feed them, and lighting up the world to lead them. Each time, he ends up disappointed, probably just as hungry, but a little less willing to eat. Yakov watches him curl up in the shadows of his studio, pulling together his tears drop by drop to build a wave. It crashes over his listeners with the laments of a man screaming out for help. And Yakov knows it, but he ignores it. Viktor is strong. He shakes off his moods with the ease with which he slips on an Armani suit and a pair of aviators.

So, Yakov watches with strange fascination and concern as Viktor builds an empire. The bricks come in two – one for the castle and one for the compound walls. Viktor becomes so famous, he starts getting washed up in human oceans. People line up for morsels. Viktor seems eager to feed the world. The more he gives, the less that remains.

Yes, Yakov thinks a lot about Viktor. He thinks about watching the sunrise turn to sunset. He thinks about hunger, about love yet unfulfilled, and wonders if Viktor knows what it means to fall in love. He hasn’t seen Viktor hungry in a while. And Yakov wonders what Viktor is thinking – and if, as Viktor studies Yuuri Katsuki, he recognizes that he has the look of a man starving.

(Yakov fears he probably doesn’t.)

XXIV.

Yuuri’s first concert is always the most stressful, but Los Angeles is a great city with a good vibe to start off.

His best friends are also in the back, trying to give him pep talks, even as he has four different people dabbing make-up, combing his hair, fixing his shoes, and making sure his underwear doesn’t slide inside his tight pants. Phichit lifts a cold bottle of water with a straw to his lips and Yuuri, against his better judgement, drinks greedily to abate the nausea curling around his stomach. This is followed by an additional group checking the mic attached to his hip. Celestino doesn’t bother to tell him until the last minute that Viktor Nikiforov is attending the show, watching from backstage with his long-time manager Yakov Feltsman to be more precise. Minako and Celestino tell him not to worry – they’ll take care of Viktor and give him a tour of the set and an idea of the theme.

“It’s called _The Yuuri Katsuki Experience_ for a reason. Each concert is different,” Celestino says, showing Viktor how to download the mobile application so Viktor, too, can join in the voting process. The first song has already been chosen. “We ask fans to vote online for a set of five songs, which give us a break to prepare for the other impromptu sets. Then, we give them options to vote for the next song. The results come back instantaneously.”

“So, Yuuri must be prepared to perform any of these in a moment’s notice, with costume changes and everything?” Viktor asks Celestino. For the first time, Yuuri can swear there’s a veneer of respect in his voice, like this is something impressive. It is, technically, but in the few interactions Yuuri has had with Viktor, he hasn’t been particularly impressed by Yuuri, except for rehearsal.

Celestino nods vigorously, almost proud, “yes! We don’t have dramatic set changes, though, but there are a couple of surprises that make it feel like everything has gone through a radical transformation. That’s the power of music and entertainment.”

“That’s very original,” Viktor nods, following behind Minako now to meet the dancers. He shakes hands with each one, graciously listening to them gush, even as he asks Celestino, “And this was your idea?”

“Yuuri’s, actually. He puts together all of his shows,” Celestino explains, ushering Viktor and Yakov to a couple of seats.

(Yuuri’s nervous when the fans pick _In the Closet_. It’s a popular song, partly because the music video includes a scene in which Yuuri pole dances for a stranger with platinum blond hair. (A stranger that visibly, from behind, looks like he could be Viktor Nikiforov.) The song itself isn’t particularly subtle, either, speaking about wanting another person with uncontrollable need, even as the relationship needs to remain hidden.

The results come instantaneously. He feels, more than sees the darkness sweep over the stage. All around him, there is a flurry of activity, as the technicians help him change seamlessly into the mesh and spandex costume. The flap of the half-skirt lies heavy against his hip, lifeless for now. And he swallows hard, knowing a dancer is about to come out to help him with the performance, looking every bit like a washed out, faded version of iconic platinum hair and ice-blue eyes and broad shoulders and a tapered waist – the same ones that have been haunting Yuuri in his dreams since he was eighteen and transitioned from wanting Viktor to blow a song in his ear to blowing him in the studio.

He takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes. A strong hand splays over his flank just as the lights begin to flicker to life and then he hears Viktor’s voice breathing against his ear, “I hope you don’t mind I asked your dancer to stand back.”

And Yuuri almost faints. His ears are flooded with the sound of white noise from the audience. Yuuri is a professional. But, Viktor Nikiforov is a legend. The robotic voice of the virtual assistant he has so lovingly named Erie speaks to the audience: “Now playing _In the Closet._ ”

Yuuri practically blocks out most of the performance. What he remembers is only pieced together by video evidence.

He pushes Viktor carefully onto the chair, reaching for the pole with memorized expertise. The moves come easily.

Yuuri gets lost in Viktor’s cologne the moment he stands up and traps Yuuri against the pole, encouraging him with the press of his torso against his back to slide up and down the pole. And Yuuri bites his bottom lip, drawing it out as he feels himself slowly growing hard from the press of cold metal against his dick. It’s an experience to hear Viktor singing his words, the lyrics he once crafted, desperate and hungry mirrored back to him with a softness and seduction he never quite mastered: “ _You’re just a lover who gets me by, is it worth the giving, is it worth a try? You cannot cleave it, put it in the furnace, you cannot wet it, you cannot burn it._ ”

Yuuri scoots back to roll his ass back. After that, it’s a blur of moving limbs and breathless singing: _He wants to give it all, he wants to dare me. One thing in life you must understand, the truth of lust, so open the door and you will see, there are no secrets, make your move and set me free._

Yuuri slowly comes to his senses when he finds himself straddling Viktor Nikiforov, sitting on the chair again. His thighs flex, even as Viktor’s hands box his hips in place, slowly encouraging him to keep grinding their hips together. Yuuri had never imagined himself an exhibitionist, but then he feels Viktor’s breathless whisper mirroring the song, “Touch me there, make the move, cast the spell. _There’s something about you, baby, that makes me want to give it to you._ ”

“Just promise me whatever we say, whatever we do to each other,” Yuuri gasps, hips still rolling with the intoxication of the beat, and he’s so incredibly close that his knees buckle, “we’ll make a vow to keep it in the closet.”

The song ends leaving Yuuri embarrassed and unfulfilled. He stares down at Viktor, breaths coming out like punches. Viktor’s hair is a mess, but he otherwise looks relaxed and composed, even if the evidence between them is an obvious sign of too much friction. The curve of Viktor’s dick tenting against his pants is a thing of beauty, and Yuuri is embarrassed that he’s thirsty enough to build his own water supply with drool.

As the lights go dark, Yuuri thinks of continuing, finishing, clinching in his grasp what he has wanted for over a decade. The way Viktor’s fingers dig into his hips, knead into his ass makes him think maybe it’s the same thing Viktor wants, but then the technicians start clearing the area again, and Yuuri moves to let Viktor go. Viktor gives Yuuri a small smile, whispering as he leaves to return backstage, “Thanks for the show.”

(Yuuri swears he sees Viktor reach down to fix himself as he goes.)

And Yuuri can’t help himself. He’s on stage now. This is where he’s always felt safe. He purrs out, unashamed, “Any time.”

XXV.

“I know I already said this, but what were you thinking?” Minako yells at him later, pacing the room as she switches from channel to channel, each one showing the same grainy, social media videos of Yuuri practically riding Viktor Nikiforov on stage. It’s not terrible. But there’s another video now floating around, too, from the concert after-party that has Yuuri more than a little tipsy wining like he was born in the Caribbean. Of course, it wouldn’t be scandalous if it wasn’t with Viktor Nikiforov. Apparently, Viktor is very good shimmying down, too, because to Yuuri’s twisted sense of pride, they managed to walk over the beer bottle without touching it.   

Yuuri simply groans, hiding his face on the pillow and hoping he can smother himself with it. He’s not exactly sure how he’s supposed to face Viktor now, especially with the next rehearsal in New York coming up so quickly and two videos of Yuuri trying to milk him dry floating around the Internet and every media outlet in the country (and maybe internationally, too). Celestino hasn’t checked the full extent of the coverage.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Yuuri tries to appease her again. “I’m sorry. I blame the love ritual. Yuuko warned me it’d be a lot stronger now that we were actually spending time together.”

Minako huffs and then proceeds to yell at him even more after hearing that Yuuri has called on Yuuko again, even when Celestino had prohibited anymore weird rituals to earn Viktor Nikiforov’s love. But, after a while, Minako sighs, sitting down by the edge of Yuuri’s bed to pat his calf.

“You know,” she tells him, now friend more than handler, “you _can_ compete with your own personal charm, Yuuri. I think if you tried, you could very successfully seduce Viktor Nikiforov. But you need to start believing in yourself – not Yuuko – to do that.”

Yuuri looks up at his friend, licking his lips, “You really think I could?”

Minako nods, “I think you could definitely do it. You just need to decide it’s what you want and go for it. Now don’t leave this room. I’m going to bring you a smoothie, okay?”

Yuuri nods, rolling onto his back to count the tiles in the ceiling. He thinks about Minako’s words for a while, ruminating them in his head, before he pulls out his vision board.

(Slowly, he begins to concoct a plan.)

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor decides the time has come to make Yuuri an offer he might not be able to refuse. But first Yuuri needs to introduce Viktor to junk food, starting with McDonald's.

XXVI.

Engagement #1 is music royalty—the son of a Rock King catapulted into a God the moment he dies—with a tiara made of glass and shoes too big to fill in one lifetime. Viktor comes back from Russia at sixteen with a crown too heavy to bear alone and immediately decides to enter a whirlwind romance that leaves him dizzy, wrapped up in love and sacked dry of songs and cum. He proposes in four months, drunk on alcohol he’s not even old enough to drink – that and young romance, sex, opulence, and rock and roll. He runs head-first into the fire, lost in lips and hair as red as flames. He ignores the gasps of the world and the rumors that try to paint his engagement as fake. _It’s not fake,_ he tells the world, yells from the studio booth, pulling Engagement #1 into a world of his own creation – all soft electronic R &B sounds and old school ballads with catchy pop undertones. His next album is going to be just as much a miracle as the love he now holds in his arms.

He’s so blind.

When it ends nine months later, he’s left in the studio without an album, feeling like he’s been robbed. (Only later is he not too ashamed to admit in silence to Christophe Giacometti that he was robbed, that Engagement #1 ran off with twelve songs and plenty of samples to the Hit Factory, where Celestino Cialdini, legendary producer, took Viktor’s songs and hammered them into popular ear dribble.) Yakov yells at him when Engagement #1 takes the top spot on the charts for weeks with the notes squeezed out of Viktor’s love. Viktor doesn’t even bother crying. He locks himself in the studio, and when he’s ready, he allows Yakov to barge in with a group of anxious executives. _Bless His Soul_ ( _sometimes I cry 'cause I'm confused, Is this a fact of being used, There is no life for me at all, 'Cause I give myself at beck and call_ ,) is both a curse and a balm; it’s a scream into the cliff of the charts, his battle cry as he gets his revenge with the strength of a song that every executive tells him isn’t marketable, “except for that middle rift, Viktor.”

But one song isn’t an album. It’s strange for Viktor: He’s eighteen, parched, and in a drought. His album is late by a year. People begin to talk. Yakov grows desperate, watching producer after producer walk. And then, one night, Engagement #1 knocks on Viktor’s door, drunk and high, body undulating down onto Viktor’s bed.

“Let me save you,” Viktor whispers, desperate.

“From what?” Engagement #1 whispers back, sweaty and shaky as he pulls up his pants and leaves again. 

Viktor runs to the studio, thinking he might just die bleeding his voice into a microphone, and gives birth to _Agape_. He asks Yavok to bring him the best classicists in the industry. He needs violins. He needs strong sounds and dizzying lows and highs. (And Yakov tells him: “You have two months to get it out or I’m suing you for breach of contract.” Viktor knows Yakov is bluffing, but he still comes out swinging, screaming his desire on a stage: “ _The life that you’re living is dangerous_.” But _Agape_ doesn’t bring Engagement #1 back. Viktor watches _Agape_ entrench itself into the charts, grow roots, and give fruit. Before he knows it, he’s holding nine Grammy statues, and people are adding long words to his name: _Best-selling artist of all time; King of Pop, Rock, and Soul; King of Videos; the artist of the decade._ It leaves Viktor with an even heavier, bigger crown to carry all alone. _Agape_ has sales spikes through time, typically on Viktor’s birthday or special occasions, enough that it keeps its title.

(It’s not long before Viktor brings out _Iced_. He’s nineteen and fed-up of hurting. He lifts up his middle finger and, for the first time, cuts off all his hair. It goes right to number 1 and stays there for weeks. Viktor brings home even more awards and buys himself an actual throne to keep in Villa Vedici.)

He’s twenty-three and exhausted by the time he’s pulled like the tide to the moon, to Engagement #2. It’s a strange serendipity, what with Yakov gifting him a poodle puppy to keep him satisfied. Naturally, he’s tentative and scared, pulling long nights in the studio with the words _self-proclaimed King of Pop_ haunting him, after a vitriolic article is run in People Magazine and keeps making rounds everywhere. But _Stammi Vicino_ meets all expectations, even if he can’t outsell _Agape_. At least he outsells _Iced_. By the time he’s filming the first music video, there’s a beautiful, statuesque model in front of him, resting a cool hand over his feverish forehead.

“You always work with a fever? – That’s some impressive stamina,” he asks, soft and perfect. “Assuming it’s not just a stage rumor.”

Viktor gives him a practiced smile, brushing his hair back. He’s let it grow again by then. It kisses against his neck, like a comforting friend. He says, “Well, let me take you to dinner and you can find out.”

Engagement #2 is older: He teaches Viktor about forgiveness (and Engagement #1 becomes more a memory than _Agape_ ); he gives Viktor hope. Viktor feels like maybe this is finally his opportunity to be protected, as opposed to trying to protect at every corner. Their romance is drawn out, addictive in its pace, just a little drip of a kiss here, hands on hips over there, and barely a taste of the heat pooling at the juncture of their thighs. Viktor goes through an entire word tour holding onto the dream of Engagement #2.

He’s twenty-six when they get engaged, after being together for three years. Viktor brings out another album, and they hold hands down red carpets, looking beautiful together on magazine covers and in candid shots in Caribbean beaches. He goes on tour again. Somewhere along the way, Viktor has a touring accident in which a crane holding him over the audience has a sudden jolt and, while being pulled back, takes a crash to the ground. He keeps singing then, until he can limp his way back and get medical care.

“You’re going to kill yourself one of these days,” Engagement #2 cries that night in their hotel room, angry and red that Viktor won’t call off the tour and accept to get on the first flight, and Viktor crawls to rest a hand on his lower back. Engagement #2 hasn’t stopped rearranging their clothes, and Viktor’s starting to fear he’s about to grab the first available suitcase and pack-up.

“I won’t. I’m fine. I don’t feel a thing,” Viktor tells him, “Please don’t leave.”

“Oh Viktor,” Engagement #2 glares at him, but kisses him anyway, “I don’t know who hurt you so much that you think I could ever leave you, you beautiful, crazy genius.”

He’s put on painkillers for weeks. It’s the happiest time of his life. He floats through life, going from the endorphins of love (and very gentle love-making) to those of manmade synthetics, pumping his body with music and work. And he starts working on his next project, not once taking a break. For once, the entire world on his shoulder doesn’t feel as heavy (and he has strange dreams about it floating high over his head). He doesn’t even notice the moment when it becomes a problem. He’s twenty-eight when he releases _VikNik_. It’s supposed to be something different – an entirely new sound.

(Viktor passes out in the middle of rehearsals for an award show. He won’t even remember which one.)

Viktor wakes up in a hospital bed to the retreating back of his fiancé, just a month away from their wedding, and his last words filtering through his ears, like an echo: “I love you too much to watch you self-destruct, Viktor.”

(Yakov stays. While he’s recovering, Yakov brings him a magazine with a hilarious picture of Yuuri Katsuki, sitting sandwiched between 3XO and Engagement #2 at the Grammys, glaring at his ex-fiancé. It’s only marginally encouraging to know his fans are still on his side.)

He decides he’s better off alone. But then he’s thirty-one and slowly working through _Kingdom_ , still, almost three years into the project before he drags himself out of the studio to take Makkachin on a midnight walk around the park and runs into Engagement #3. He’s a young photographer, who takes pictures of the stars.

“Like, the paparazzi?” Viktor says as they sit on a bench, shrouded in darkness.

And Engagement #3 laughs, “No, like the real stars, silly. The constellations and planets. I’m an astrophotographer.”

Viktor is the one who tells Engagement #3 to go. _Run away from me and don’t look back_ , he says. _Kingdom_ doesn’t do very well, and Viktor fans the flames of conspiracy theory and clapbacks and fan marches, until he’s too tired to keep fighting against an industry machine he is now convinced is trying to destroy him. He licks his wounds bac home, with Makkachin and his soon-to-be-husband. Engagement #3 is everything Viktor thought he would want, and then he finds Engagement #3 locked up inside a restaurant bathroom stall, rocking himself on the ground.

“They’re trying to peek through the window,” he says, pointing shakily to the window high above the toilet. Viktor sees flashes pop off like fireworks. He takes Engagement #3 into his arms and pulls him out, thinking himself a lifeguard, a hero for breathing a simple comfort back into his lover. Of course, they break up shortly after, and Viktor spends several mornings fidgeting with the rings while he walks the grounds of Villa Vedici alone again, and he decides,  _never again_. Like usual, he curls into himself. Unlike before, he decides not to venture out again. 

Maybe that’s why it’s only  _too_  natural that he’s touch starved. It’s embarrassing to be rutting against Yuuri Katsuki’s ass on stage, but the feeling of their hips colliding – his dick bulging through his pants managing to find just the right angle to slide against the line of Yuuri’s ass, right where the leather spandex coats like a second skin and dips – gives him the satisfaction of surviving a car crash. 

He wishes he could take Yuuri’s mouth against his own, drink in every word and every note, slip his tongue in to scoop him dry of live and eat him whole. Yuuri Katsuki is beautiful, lively, like fire burning oxygen – expansive and uncontrollable. It’s like being sixteen, and twenty-two, and thirty-two again, except Viktor is thirty-seven, and he knows not to walk down this road. Still, Viktor watches with satisfaction as Yuuri’s knuckles turn white from the force of holding onto the pole, like he might collapse if he doesn’t anchor himself. 

By the time they make it to the chair, Viktor is gone, so gone. His vision is all Yuuri Katsuki; Yuuri and his sweeping dark hair over blown-out eyes and a hungry mouth that can’t come close enough. Viktor has the distinct memory of pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s neck, but it doesn’t show up in the video later, so he wonders how much was only in his head. All he knows is that there’s this hazy feeling in his belly, like he’s about to explode in a second and hide himself in the remains of Yuuri Katsuki. But then the song ends, and no amount of prodding can get Yuuri back into the groove of their previous rocking, so they both look down, not surprised to find both their erections heavy and wanting. Viktor is almost sure he sees the spandex twitch with Yuuri’s arousal. 

“Excuse me, but we need to take the chair,” a technician tells them, and Yuuri wakes up from his daze and releases Viktor from the jail of his thighs. The technician waves, dragging the chair behind him, “Thanks!”

Viktor is shaken, but not completely gone. He turns, taking advantage of the darkness and the coverage of his back to Yuuri and the audience to tuck himself into place, “Thanks for the show.” – He says it like he’s throwing dollars at a bed. 

“Any time,” Yuuri purrs, like a promise. 

And Viktor smiles, shaking his head as he goes to find Yakov to return to his hotel room to drown himself on his sheets. 

XXVII.

Yuuri is busy admiring his vision board and sipping on his smoothie when the phone in his hotel room rings. He blinks, confused, before he pulls down his crop top and crawls over to reach for it. Usually, Yuuri wouldn’t pick up a hotel room phone; typically, it wouldn’t ring, either. But Minako and Celestino have confiscated his phone to make sure he doesn’t accidentally re-tweet a questionable video of himself and Viktor or, worse, call Yuuko. He doesn’t think that it could be the paparazzi until he’s slurping his drink and saying, “hello?”

(Yuuri won’t say it out loud, but considering that it’s taken him turning 29 to have a minor drunk scandal, he’s sure Celestino is being too harsh. After all, it’s not like Yuuri wasn’t grinding on his future husband, if Yuuko’s birth charts are right, which they typically are.)

“Yuuri?” Viktor Nikiforov says on the other line, voice just a step on the side of breathless. It’s like he’s been waiting to talk to Yuuri all morning and early afternoon, which Yuuri understands completely, because he’s been feeling the same way since he stumbled back into his hotel room drunk and alone last night.   

“V—Viktor?” he almost chokes, setting down his drink. He cradles the phone, sitting cross-legged on a pillow. He’s had dreams about this – the kind that typically had them going from talking about a mutual interest in contemporary R&B sounds (the type Viktor introduced) to moaning dirty song lyrics. Yuuri is not dreaming, though. Viktor has also not moaned out his name so far either. He’s not discounting the possibility. Yuuri has a plan, after all. He tries t relax, smiling as he says, “I was hoping you’d call.”

“Ah, Yuuri, I’m glad I was able to get through,” Viktor responds, “I tried calling your cellphone, but it went right to voicemail. Look, I know it’s last minute, but I wanted to see if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight? Just you and me. I know a relatively quiet place. It’s secure and very private.”

Yuuri wishes he had his phone to scream with Phichit (and throw shade at Otabek about all his love ritual jokes). Technically, Yuuri will see Viktor again shortly in New York, but the opportunity to see him again so soon makes him feel lightheaded. He wants so badly to go, but he knows he can’t: “Yes! I mean, no. I mean, I want to, but Celestino and Minako have grounded me over, uh, last night,” he blushes brightly. “I can’t leave the hotel room.”

“Oh no,” Viktor chuckles, “Yakov yelled at me, too, but he’s used to it. I’m sorry that happened, though. I know your handlers are stricter, but I just can’t seem to keep anything private. So, let me apologize properly by taking you to dinner, Yuuri. I promise I’ll be on my very best behavior this time.”

Yuuri bites at his knuckle, “I can’t. I—I don’t know how I would leave. I don’t. I don’t sneak out, Viktor.”

“I understand.”

It breaks Yuuri’s heart to hear the palpable disappointment written all over Viktor’s voice. Yuuri knows better than to just take off without letting anyone know, though. He might have been able to get away with that when he was younger and less famous, but that ship has long sailed and it’s a rare occurrence when Yuuri isn’t spotted by fans eager to get an autograph (at the minimum).

“If you change your mind, though, I’ll be at Reginald’s at seven,” Viktor says before hanging up.

 Yuuri stares at the phone in his hands.

Almost immediately, he knows exactly what he needs to do.

XXVIII.

Viktor rubs his hands together, waiting impatiently by the door of Reginald’s Bistro. Reginald’s is a Los Angeles institution, and he’s made sure to push dinner hours to later as a special favor from the owner and chef, who is an old-time friend. Viktor is confident Yuuri will show, but he’s also well-aware that if he doesn’t, Viktor will be eating all alone with his five bodyguards.

“Vitya?” Yannick asks, ready to usher him away from the door. They had made a deal. He was only allowed to wait for five minutes. It’s almost seven. “I think that must be his car.”

Viktor relaxes, standing tall as he spots Yuuri walk out from a sleek black car with two bodyguards shadowing behind him. His legs look like they could go on for days in a pair of tight black pants to match the pleather jacket accentuating his broad shoulders and tapered waist. Viktor has only seen Yuuri recently either on stage, fully decked out in fantasies, or in practice, relaxed and mussed with sweat. This Yuuri is smooth, with his hair slicked back and lips dabbed with the sheen of expensive, organic lip balm. Viktor smiles, spreading out his arms to welcome him.

“Yuuri, welcome,” he envelopes Yuuri into a hug, pressing him close. In his arms, Yuuri remains stiff. He smells faintly of Calvin Klein. “I see you managed to sneak out after all. With only two bodyguards. I hope you won’t mind that my entourage is a little larger.”

Viktor is glad he went with the Ferragamo blazer in black with the gold buttons, cinched waist and pleather lapels. He was worried he might come off as over-dressed, but seeing Yuuri looking so effortlessly beautiful makes him feel more confident in his own choice. He makes sure to dismiss his bodyguards to one of the many empty tables behind them and, like a gentleman, pulls out Yuuri’s chair. His back bumps against Yuuri’s bodyguards, who crowd behind him, studying him.

“I’m surprised you came,” Viktor whispers, trying to ignore them. _Not just because I’ve been a perfect iceberg and purposely pushing all your buttons_ , he doesn’t say. It’s not that Viktor doesn’t like Yuuri as a person, but that has very little to do with business. Pop stars are seldom people with each other: Viktor has learned that the hard way. Famous people bring their own staff and agendas to the table. Regular people can’t handle either.

Yuuri blushes a soft pink, fanning his eyelashes to look at him as he reaches for a glass of water, “Why were you surprised? You invited me.”

“Yes, but, if all the things I’ve heard are true, you have a reputation for being a good boy – you don’t party, except for last night; you don’t get bad press; you certainly don’t sneak out. I bet you even stick to your diet,” Viktor takes a seat, leaning forward conspirationally (and takes quick mental note of the way Yuuri’s bodyguards lean as well), “do they always stick to you like glitter, or should I take it as a personal warning?”

Yuuri turns to his bodyguards, rolling his eyes fondly, “Nishigori, I’ll be fine. Please? You promised.”

“Yuuri,” Nishigori warns, a gruff, large man. He eventually relents, albeit not without glaring warningly at Viktor as he passes. “Be careful with him,” he says, growling as he makes a beeline with his companion for a nearby table.

Viktor laughs, shimmying in a pretend shake, “Oh, how scary. I promise, I don’t bite. That’s all rumors.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri licks his lips, trying to hide a small, amused smile. It’s precious. Viktor suddenly stills when he feels something nudge at his ankle, pushing at the hem of his pants. (Viktor tries hard not to let his surprise show at the fact that Yuuri Katsuki would be so bold as to try to start a game of footsie only three minutes after sitting down.) “I’m glad you invited me to dinner tonight, Viktor.”

“Uh,” he responds, trying not to look shaken when he feels Yuuri’s foot continue the journey up to his knee. Viktor jumps when he feels the insistent caress at his thigh, and almost sends the glasses rattling with the sudden move. (His bodyguards look over in surprise, and he lifts his hand to let them know to stand back.) He grabs for his glass quickly, “yeah, no, glad you could make it. Uh, waiter? – Maybe we can order something to drink.”

Yuuri leans his chin on his hands, staring straight at Viktor with a coy smile, “everything okay?”

“Fine,” Viktor grins, licking his lips when he feels an insistent foot press against his calf. “Just questioning all my assumptions about you. You’re a little box of surprises.”

It’s an interesting dynamic. He’s having dinner with Yuuri Katsuki, probably the only person in the world that knows what it’s like to go to a Michelin star restaurant and have to eat in the kitchen, hiding from press and public. Between the two, their bodyguards easily fill a couple of tables, acting as the only other people in an otherwise empty restaurant.

Yuuri gives him an innocent look, all big amber eyes and lightly parted pink lips: “I don’t know what you could mean by that, Viktor. I’ll remind you, I’m a good boy. Sometimes.”

“Ah, okay, that’s the game we’re playing tonight?” Viktor laughs, taking a menu from a waiter. He’s about to make another quip when he feels Yuuri’s foot press right against his crotch under the table. He squeaks, pushing his chair back. The chair screeches against the cherry wood planks, and he closes his eyes, ordering a random appetizer instead of drinks in his bewilderment. “And, uh, tell Reg that I’ll pay for the damages to the floor,” he sighs.

“I’ll have your house wine, please,” Yuuri says sweetly, and Viktor swears he sees the waitress exude floating hearts as she leaves. When Yuuri turns his eyes towards Viktor, there’s a mischievous glint to them.

Viktor knows then he’s in serious trouble.

So, he grins and leans forward, biting on his bottom lip as he whispers, “Hey, Yuuri, you want to get out of here?”

(Yuuri’s not sure what’s happening. But he was not expecting Viktor to say _that_. Naturally, he grows flustered almost immediately. “What?” his voice falls flat as his foot slowly inches back into his expensive loafer. For all that he spent the afternoon daydreaming about the potential endings for this date, this was not at all something he considered.

“Have you never ditched your bodyguards before?” he asks, an edge of delicious, seductive danger in the smolder of his eyes and the fringe of his hair and the strong edge of his jaw. Yuuri knows, has always known he was so gone for this man, right from the first time he ever saw him perform on television. Already, Yuuri has ditched his punishment; bypassed his smoothie diet; and, played into a game of bad choices.

“The papz are here,” Nishigori tells Yuuri. “We’ll go contain the commotion. Hey, any of you knights willing to lend a hand, or is everyone just waiting for a cosmo?”

And with that he takes a couple of Viktor’s men as well. It’s likely to be all over the press tomorrow: VikNik and YuuriK at Reginald’s for Date Night After Grinding All Night. If the media ends up somehow thinking Yuuri is there alone, fans will know within seconds he’s not. Even he knows all the names to Viktor’s core security team, starting with Yannick, who has watched over Viktor since he was young. He’s like the Father of Security in Viktor’s world. Yuuri respects him. He’s not sure he’s reading to be in his shit list.

“Good timing,” Viktor pulls out his phone.

Yuuri gasps, and Viktor reaches over the table to press his hand over his lips.

He mumbles against Viktor’s hand, “Ay cam bewief yuu cawled ‘em.”

“They were going to show up anyway,” Viktor gives Yuuri one of his disarming heart shaped smiles, “okay? Just play along.”

“No,” Yuuri whispers, furrowing his brows together. He looks over Viktor’s head at the team of bodyguards relaxing as they take sips from their beers and drinks. “Viktor, no. I don’t. I don’t do this. I don’t sneak out and run from my security squad. That’s dangerous.”

“I thought you told Vanity Fair that your favorite song of mine was _Dangerous_ ,” Viktor chuckles.

Yuuri can feel the heat spread from his cheeks down to his neck, “I don’t sneak out.”

“You’re sneaking out now,” Viktor points out, grinning (and Yuuri is embarrassed to be reminded of the fact). “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun! I promise I’ll take care of you. Don’t you trust me?”

Yuuri can’t find it in himself to say no, especially when Viktor laces their fingers together and tugs him away from the table to a long corridor. His hand feels smooth against his own. It’s larger and heavier, and Yuuri feels instantly protected, like Viktor really does feel responsible for him. Two of Viktor’s men immediately stand to follow them. They probably know exactly what Viktor is considering. Yuuri can already feel the beginnings of nerves pool in his throat. If they stare too hard, he knows he’ll sing, just like a well-dressed canary.

“I won’t have you following me into the bathroom, Miko,” Viktor says, looking exceedingly serious.

“But VikNik,” Miko says, looking lost as he fumbles with his hands.

“You can stand outside the bathroom and keep watch if you’d like,” Viktor beams, “but you might want to wear earbuds. Come on Yuuri! Don’t get shy on me now. There’s an extra-large, handicap stall waiting just for us. We can play footsie in there all you want, too.”

The bodyguards all freeze by the first wall.

And that’s how Yuuri ends up running through a kitchen (“Are you crazy? We can’t do this!”) and into Reggie’s borrowed car, with three burly men running after them for a couple of blocks until they were out of sight.

(“Do you even have a driver’s license?” he panics, jumping into the car and strapping on his seatbelt. It’s a pink convertible, but the top is up. Suddenly, Yuuri really wishes he had the time to be Reginald.

“Of course I do!” Viktor cheers, proud as he turns on the ignition.

“Really?” Yuuri turns to face him, mouth slack in surprise. “Because fans have been trying to get your picture for years and nothing has ever turned up!”

Viktor snorts, throwing his wallet at Yuuri’s lap, “knock yourself out. Just don’t take any pictures of it.”

Yuuri holds the wallet reverently, letting his thumbs brush over the driver’s license encased in an ID-slip. It’s completely unfair. No one takes a good official ID picture, except for Viktor Nikiforov, who is smiling and shining, shadows acting as perfect contour in the black and white photo in front of him.

“Wow. I can’t believe I’m actually seeing it in person. You’re so unfair. How is it possible you’re even beautiful when you’re supposed to be ugly?” Yuuri asks, fingers itching to reach for his phone. Years of fans searching desperately for proof could end with only the swipe of his thumb.

“Wow,” Viktor laughs, looking flattered as he hits the brakes sharp at an intersection, and stretches out an arm to protect Yuuri from the jolt, “you really are a fan. Remind me to autograph something for you in New York next week. Maybe your booty shorts? The ones that have the _Iced and Ready_ tramp stamp? – That’s a play on the lyrics from my album, right?”

“If you autograph my lower back, I can get a real tramp stamp,” Yuuri says, and then drops the wallet in favor of pressing both hands over his mouth.)

Yuuri looks out the passenger window the entire time, wondering if Viktor Nikiforov having a sudden thirst for abduction is part of the _side effects_ Yuuko warned about the last New Moon Love Ritual she performed on Yuuri’s behalf in the Viktor shrine located in his New York City penthouse.)

 XXIX.

They’re driving in circles.

Yuuri imagines it must be Viktor’s idea of giving Yuuri time to acclimate to being alone with him in such an enclosed, moving space. (At some point, Yuuri does consider opening the door and rolling out, except that would only embarrass him further, or break his leg.) It’s cramping Yuuri’s plan: He had planned to play footsie and make eyes at Viktor and maybe try to hold his hand, but he hadn’t planned to have an actual conversation with him. Somehow, they go from acknowledging that _yes, Yuuri is huge fan_ to food. Yuuri’s stomach keeps growling, and eventually he says, “Think we can stop by a McDonalds? I could go for some chicken nuggets and fries. And maybe a coke.”

Viktor blinks, “what about your diet?”

Yuuri arches an eyebrow, “Seriously? I just snuck out of my hotel and ran away from my chief of security at your example and now you want to be a model star? Take me to McDonald's. The least you can do is still feed me without judging my food choices.”

“Okay, but where do I find one?”

“Find what?” Yuuri asks, confused as he looks out the window.

“A McDonald's,” Viktor repeats, like Yuuri’s the one acting strange. “Is there one by the Royal Soundbite studio?”

Yuuri pauses for a moment, “You’ve spent more time there than I have. How do you not know there’s one just around the corner from there? Didn’t you ever just send someone to get you a cheeseburger? Or does Viktor Nikiforov really only eat organically grown cow? – I mean, I’ve heard rumors that you’re really picky about your food because your mom was super strict and kept you on a special diet to make sure you stayed really slender, but—”

“Uh,” Viktor flushes pink, trying to cut him off quickly, “I’ve never had junk food. I mean, commercial, drive-through stuff? Yeah, no. Yakov’s never let me get near one, and my bodyguards are – as you saw – pretty intense. I guess I never really tried after a while, since I can’t exactly go alone without being recognized, unless I wear a disguise, but if I’m going through the trouble of doing that, I’m going shopping by myself.”

Yuuri deadpans, shocked by the confession, “You’ve never had McDonald's?”

“No.”

“KFC? Pizza Hut? Taco Bell?” he asks, growing progressively more concerned. Yuuri racks his brain, offering quietly, “Chipotle?”

“No, Yuuri, I don’t even know what the last one is!” Viktor laughs, “stop listing them. The answer is no. I have lived off a salad and fresh smoothies and fish and chicken diet for most of my life. They don’t even let me have beef anymore, now that I’m over thirty-five.”

“Oh my gosh,” Yuuri immediately digs his hand into Viktor’s pocket, sending them swerving. “Viktor, no wonder you’re so sad. You poor, tortured soul. Quick, we need to get you greasy commercial meat immediately. Like, I don’t think it’s healthy to be so fat-free; fat is good for you. Not a lot. But some.”

“What are you doing?” Viktor squeaks, ignoring the honking cars as he takes a turn left.

“I’m getting us directions to a McDonald's,” Yuuri holds Viktor’s phone in his hand. “Now, what’s your passcode?”

(They order half the menu, mostly because Viktor apparently has eyes bigger than his flat, eight-pack adorned stomach. They have to get a little creative, so Yuuri pulls up his t-shirt to cover half his face and pulls up his jacket to cover his hair, looking every bit like he’s about to rob the store than break his year-long diet.

The teenager working the drive through window takes the hundred dollar bill and looks more than a little confused. She’s about to say something to Yuuri when she looks up and, slowly, points at Viktor Nikiforov, who is simply waving at her, saying a cool, effortless, “Hi!”

And Yuuri wants to facepalm, as he fakes a deep baritone, coughing as he says, “keep the change. Viktor, drive, drive!”)

Viktor takes Yuuri to an isolated, forgotten park behind the Royal Soundbite Studio.

“Tada!” he says, looking incredibly proud that he’s brought Yuuri to the equivalent of a wooded alleyway. It’s dark, with only the flickering lamp posts behind the studio’s parking lot providing any light. There’s a couple of wooden benches, and Yuuri wonders if anyone has been here in ages. The grass is slightly overgrown. But he can’t bring himself to ask anything. Viktor seems excited to be there with Yuuri, shuffling away from the car with three bags of McDonald's burgers, fries, and chicken nuggets.

Yuuri follows with their drinks. This is a special place to Viktor. He can tell. By default, that now makes it special to Yuuri as well.

“I used to walk Makkachin here,” he says, “back when I was recording Kingdom. I would come out here to think. I ended up discovering it was so dark out here, you could actually see the stars. The real ones. People come out here sometimes to take pictures of them.”

Yuuri sits next to him on a bench. He looks up, surprised. Viktor’s right. Yuuri can’t remember the last time he saw actual stars. He reaches into one of the bags to grab a burger, leaning back to enjoy the greasy taste of beef and cheese mixed with thick mayonnaise and ketchup, as he admires the flickering constellations above him. Yuuri knows the story: This must be where Viktor met Engagement #3. It leaves something heavy sinking in his stomach, but Yuuri decides not to mention it. He has no right to be jealous over only dinner.

Yuuri swallows hard. He offers his opened burger to Viktor, noticing that he’s unlikely to take one for himself. Viktor is incredibly disciplined and he doesn’t miss a flavor he’s never had.

Viktor takes the burger, taking a big bite. Almost immediately, he moans: “That’s not exactly the best burger I’ve ever had, but it tastes strangely good.”

“You’re ruined for life now,” Yuuri chuckles, watching him in amusement. After a long moment of silence, he dips his hand into the bag again, pulling out some fries. _And so am I_ , he doesn’t say.

(Viktor turns to look at Yuuri. It’s dark, shadows dancing over Yuuri’s moon-kissed skin. He flinches when Yuuri shakes his head, something fond and real in his eyes as he dabs at Viktor’s cheek with a napkin, and Viktor says before he can help it, “Wow, you’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri whispers, trying to memorize the weight of Viktor's thumb on his bottom lip, “So are you.”)

XXX.

“Yuuri,” Viktor asks him, slurping through a straw. It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, the way his lips pucker to suck. It is, though. Yuuri is lost in between the sight of Viktor mapping the flavors of commercial junk food and the sound of his name. Viktor nudges him with his shoulder, practically singing, “ _Yuuri._ ”

“Hm?” Yuuri responds noncommittally. 

“Your contract with the Hit Factory is expiring soon, isn’t it?” he asks, eyes fully trained on Yuuri.

“Oh, yeah,” Yuuri furrows his brows, staring down at his hands. The air feels heavy now. He wonders why Viktor would be so curious about a rudimentary procedure. Stars with strong sales easily get re-signed by their labels, even if nothing is ever guaranteed. Yuuri has been good, though: He's played by the rules and exceeded his numbers. It's an almost perfect formula, one Viktor should know. After all, Viktor has been resigned multiple times, even if he might not be next time. He currently owes his label one more album. Post-Kingdom, though, it’s uncertain when or if that next album will happen. Instead, Viktor has been leaking songs, playing around the rules to keep himself relevant. “But I’m pretty much assured the opportunity to renew, so I imagine in the next couple of months I should get a new contract to sign. I’m not really worried. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” Viktor says, fingers splayed over his mouth, like he’s thinking carefully about Yuuri’s words (or maybe considering whether to reach for the last chicken sandwich). His index finger taps at his bottom lip. “I guess I was just curious about your plans. I’m sure many other labels will want to sign you, too.”

“Uh, well, I’ve been with the Hit Factory and Celestino for years,” Yuuri rubs at his neck, shrugging, “They know my sound and my style; how I operate, really. I wouldn’t even know how to work for anyone else. And I really doubt any other label would know what to do with me.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short. Many people would like to work with you, I’m sure,” Viktor says, cupping Yuuri’s chin to lift his face. “Like me, for example.”

Yuuri blinks, “wait, what?”

“Yuuri, surely you know: I want to sign you. I want to be your manager; your handler; and, if you let me, your friend. I don’t think anyone can understand what it’s like to be as famous as you are right now, except, perhaps, for me,” Viktor smiles, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s cheek. His lips trail to Yuuri’s ear so he can say, “Yuuri, I want to help you take total _control_ of your artistry. I think together we can take you from icon to legend.”

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri hosts a brunch to discuss the developments in his relationship with Viktor, which seems to be heating up with the intensity of a million potential number 1 chart hits. Or so Yuuri thinks until he sees Viktor with Engagement #3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry for the delay! Apparently, my new rule is that I update at the speed of comment accumulation, which is a lame attempt at reminding you all that I am, in fact, a comment slut and do type faster when you leave behind your love (and thank you, THANK YOU, a million for having supported me with your comments so far). Sending you all so much love!

XXXI.

About a week later, Yuuri invites Phichit and Otabek to join him for brunch at his New York penthouse. Since Chris is his neighbor and in town for Viktor’s last rehearsal, he joins and brings mimosas (and his cat, even though Yuuri said he could bring his boyfriend, too). Vicchan sniffs at the cat’s carrier before wholly ignoring the visitor and making himself happy tucked neatly by Yuuri’s side on the loveseat.

“Good man,” Phichit praises Chris, taking the bottle with the pre-made mimosas and runs with it to the kitchen to grab some glasses. Yuuri’s cooked quite a spread, ranging from deep-fried chicken strips to accompany waffles with imported maple syrup to Nutella macarons and omelets with homemade cheesy hash browns. All of it breaks his diet, but he feels entitled to it after a week of arduous work.

“You could’ve done this show,” Chris tells Otabek in between sips, arching an eyebrow in question. Otabek had cited that he needed to be with his family and couldn’t participate in a second 3XO reunion for Viktor Nikiforov’s anniversary show.

Otabek shrugs, as always just verging on the edge of _too cool_ as he stuffs a piece of waffle into his mouth and says (with munchkin cheeks), “I could’ve. But I didn’t want to.”

“Hm,” Chris nods, raising his glass, “I respect that. Yuuri, I’m surprised you didn’t invite Viktor. I’m sure he would’ve _loved_ to see how domestic you can be, not to mention he probably would’ve fallen in love the moment he saw waffles. I don’t think he’s had dough since 2012.”

Yuuri flushes pink, taking a sip from his mimosa. Phichit chuckles, taking a huge spoonful of hash browns.

 “It’s a dishing brunch,” Phichit wiggles his eyebrows, elbowing his friend, “having the _dish_ here while we _dish_ kind of defeats the purpose of having a dishing brunch, other than to stuff our face with Yuuri’s yummy cooking! Not that I wouldn’t come just for the potatoes, but the _tea_ makes it all go down all the smoother.”

“Oh?” Chris sits up, suddenly very interested in the conversation. He grabs a plate, beginning to dump some more cheese on his omelet. His cat purrs, rubbing against his ankles. “Do tell. What have you got on Viktor?”

“Yeah, Yuuri, spill the tea,” Otabek says, completely deadpan as he grabs the bowl of hash browns from Phichit to dump almost half on his plate. Yuuri chuckles as he hands him the ketchup.

Yuuri tries to look nonchalant as he sits back, relaxed, “Not much to tell, really. We just, you know, went on a date. I introduced him to McDonalds. We looked at the stars together.”

Phichit gasps, a sliver of egg falling onto his pants from the shock, “the stars, Yuuri?”

Chris furrows his eyebrows, “This was Viktor Nikiforov? – Viktor “Pants Tornado” Nikiforov?”

Otabek chews thoughtfully, “why _pants_ tornado?”

“Because it’s too lewd and it takes too long to say that he’s a slut, so it’s easier to say that he walks by and rips pants. And because I would never judge Viktor for being a love hungry whirlwind of extra,” Chris smiles, reaching for a piece of chicken with his fork. He stabs one easily, taking a big bite. “Sounds like a nice night, though, Yuuri, but I question if it was really a date if he didn’t—”

Yuuri frowns, offended by the very implication that Viktor might be incapable of asking Yuuri out on a romantic date. He purses his lips, crossing his arms as he says, “he kissed me.”

Chris almost chokes. Phichit drops his fork completely, sending Vicchan jumping from the sofa to lick at the remains of food on the floor. Otabek stops chewing, eyes wide and confused as they settled on Yuuri’s face. It this him them that none of them believe him.

“On the lips,” Yuuri clarifies, turning an even deeper shade of red. None of them need to know that he was the one who’d kissed Viktor first, taking in desperate morsels of breath what he’d been wanting his whole life. He takes a sip from his mimosa, chewing on his bottom lip. “He kissed my cheek first, then the spot right under my ear, and then we just, we kissed. He wants us to be closer, he said. He _sang_ for me, you guys. You know how much I love _For All Time_ , and there he was, just crooning as he peppered my neck with kisses, _oh, then on these quiet days, where souls embrace so silently,_ and anyone that says his voice isn’t still 100 deserves to be whipped because, oh my gosh, you guys!”

“Closer how?” Phichit asks, moving to the kitchen for a glass of water to give Chris, who is still struggling to down a piece of chicken. He taps Otabek’s jaw as he goes, not even bothering to cut off Yuuri from his gushing: “Beka, chew.”

Otabek chews, eyes wide as he swallows before he says, “okay, but did he offer to be boyfriends or take you out again? Yuuri, please tell me you didn’t give it up to him after he sang you one line from a song he wrote for someone else!”

“Well, I tried! But he said no, that we should wait and take it slow and build trust in our professional relationship first,” Yuuri whines, still feeling frustrated a week later.

Yuuri has no time to answer when Chris’ phone starts playing _Bootylicious_. He doesn’t even flinch as he looks at Yuuri and tells him, “it’s your best work. Excuse me. It’s Viktor. Maybe you guys are synced mentally or something. _Hey VikNik_ , what’s up? Oh, wait, let me put you on speakerphone. I’m at a brunch cooked by the beautiful hands of our very own _YuuriK_ , so don’t say anything about his gorgeous ass, okay? – No, we’re not alone. 3XO was kind enough to let me into the reunion brunch.”

Phichit practically runs back, throwing himself over the back of the sofa to listen right next to Otabek, who offers him a bite of omelet. Phichit takes it, chewing slowly as they all hear Viktor’s voice wade through the room. Yuuri feels like his chest is about to burst just from the moment Viktor says, soft and sleepy, “Hi Yuuri.”

“Hi Viktor,” he says, just a little love drunk as he kneels on the ground to get closer to Chris’ phone on the coffee table. “Are you hungry? I made a lot of food: fried chicken and waffles and omelets with prosciutto. We have hash browns with melted cheese, too. If you want to come by, I can make you something yummy.”

Viktor laughs, and it sounds delicious in Yuuri’s mind: “Ah, thanks, Yuuri, but I’m okay. I’m just having my morning smoothie now. I was calling to see if Chris wanted to grab a late lunch, but he’ll probably be full.” There’s something in his voice that screams lonely. Yuuri almost wants to offer to crawl from his apartment to Viktor’s bed and keep him company under a blanket fort. He’s had dreams about that. “But, since I have you on the phone, have you given my offer any thought?”

Phichit exchanges glances with Otabek, biting on his fist to keep from squealing.

“I have,” Yuuri tells him, soft and eager. “But I think we should talk about it in person.”

“Great,” Viktor chuckles, “I can’t wait to see you at tomorrow’s rehearsal.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t wait,” Yuuri breathes out, desperate, if not too eager to see Viktor, smell his cologne, wash himself with his presence and attention. Phichit gives him a thumbs up, whereas Otabek shakes his head, reaching for another waffle. “I’m free tonight.”

“You know what they say, though. The longer the wait, the sweeter the kiss.”

The fact Viktor is talking about _kissing_ makes Yuuri feel light-headed.

“I don’t know that anyone says that,” Chris grouches, glaring at his phone.

“Well, maybe we’ll test it out, then,” Viktor says, completely carefree, and Yuuri can practically imagine him winking. It’s enough to make him feel faint. “I’ll see you all tomorrow!”

“Yuuri!” Phichit squeaks, rolling over the sofa to the ground. He crawls over to Yuuri, taking his hands, “tell us everything! What exactly did he offer?”

“He, uh, he offered to sign me onto his label,” he whispers, and Otabek drops his glass. Phichit rushes to keep Vicchan from running over. “Guys, he wants to help me advance my career to the next level, to take care of me and produce my next album. Isn’t it romantic? – I kind of feel like Engagement #1. Only more stable in my career.”

Chris downs his entire glass, “oh hell no. That relationship was a shit show born before reality television took off and could capitalize on it. You’re husband material; don’t compare yourself to that capital-t _thot_.”

“What he said,” Otabek points to Chris, still in shock.

Phichit takes over, saying, “Yuuri, you can’t seriously be considering giving up re-signing with the Hit Factory to follow Viktor into an uncertain project just because you’ve wanted to bang him since you were fourteen. That’s not rational.”

“Love isn’t rational!” Yuuri declares, throwing a hand over his forehead, “None of you could ever understand our connection. We’re soulmates. He just doesn’t know it yet, or maybe he does. The point is, there always comes a juncture in life where you must choose between work and love. And I am choosing love, guys. I’m choosing to finally earn the love I so rightfully have deserved for years.”

“But you need applause to live,” Phichit reminds him nervously. “Yuuri!”

“Okay, but if Viktor claps for me daily, I’ll be fine,” Yuuri grins.

“How good are your blow jobs, exactly?” Chris asks, intrigued. Otabek throws a pillow in his direction, ever the protective big brother.  

“Clap-worthy,” Yuuri beams proudly. “Oh, hey, since I have you guys here, can you tell me which pair of shorts make my thighs look better? I don’t want to wear something that might look like I’m a set of splits away from cutting off my circulation.”

XXXII.

Viktor’s not exactly sure what to expect the next morning when he walks into rehearsal to (1) thank Yuuri for accepting to take over from Sara for Viktor’s final part of the show, and (2) ask Yuuri if he’d be alright with moving their session, since Viktor has to take care of a technical emergency with the crew. Apparently, the lights were lagging again. When he walks in, he finds Yuuri stretching in front of the mirror wall, testing a set of splits that might as well be criminal when wearing a pair of low-cut booty shorts that read _Inspiration_ , and Viktor has to agree with the shameless Helvetica labeling the humps of Yuuri’s butt. He pats himself quickly for a sharpie and curses internally when he remembers leaving it behind with Yakov.

“Ah, Yuuri,” he leans against the side of the doorframe, smiling professionally. “I see you’re already here. I was going to ask if you don’t mind if we move our practice session to later today? I know you have to practice a few other performances and I do too, but an emergency came up with the light crew and—”

“Sure, no worries,” Yuuri says, carefree as he presses his entire torso down the expanse of his right leg. The look he gives Viktor is amused, almost naughty. “What time did you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure. Like I said, later today works. I’m flexible,” Viktor shrugs.

“Oh, me too!” Yuuri grins, showing off just how much when he slowly changes positions so that the tip of his feet perfectly touch his head. Viktor watches Yuuri contort himself. One of his butt cheeks pops out from the thin veneer of the shorts, playing a tantalizing game of peek-a-boo with Viktor. When Yuuri winks, he says, “in more ways than one, too.”

Viktor nods, gulping loudly, “Y—yeah, I can see that. You’ve, uh, trained your body well.”

“Maybe later I’ll show you exactly how _well_ ,” Yuuri tells him, returning to his regular stretching. “Just let me know when you’re ready for me.”

“Right, sure. I’ll get Georgi to let you know,” he says, closing the door behind him. He stops by the first available wall, taking a deep gasp for air to keep his mind settled. “Keep it together, Nikiforov,” he gives himself a pep talk, running his fingers through his hair, “you can’t suddenly go losing your mind over the first pretty boy that winks your way, even if he does have a fantastic ass—”

“Who has a fantastic ass?” Mila pops her head from her dressing room, sending Viktor jumping back.

“ _Jesus_ , Mila!”

“Who are you talking to?” she asks, looking around to find Viktor alone.

“Uh, I was on the phone,” Viktor lies, shaking his head. “I need to go, but, uh, do me a favor and see if Georgi can get Yuuri some proper workout clothes? I think the shorts he’s wearing are a little too tight. It’s like they’re about to pop with any more stretching or pressure. I don’t want him to have a wardrobe accident during rehearsal.”

Mila pokes Viktor’s side, giving him a knowing smile, “Oh? How long were you looking at his ass exactly?”

“It was just right there on my face, okay! It was a little hard _not_ to look at it,” Viktor defends himself, then regrets saying anything when Mila’s mouth goes slack.

She squeals, “ _on your face_? Viktor!” Mila pulls him into her dressing room, slamming him against the door, “Oh my god. Did he sit on your face? – He’s, like, almost a decade younger than you. You stud! I knew you guys must’ve banged or something, considering how you kept going at it in all those videos! He’s super sweet and very handsome and incredibly talented. Oh _VikNik_ , I’m so happy for you.”

“No! That was bad phrasing, not right on my face. He just,” Viktor shuffles his hands, “you know. He was just. Wait, why am I talking to you about this? You work for me. Do what I tell you. And don’t tell anyone.”

Mila pouts, “fine boss.”

XXXIII.

“And then, he said Yuuri’s ass was right on his face,” Mila tells Chris in wardrobe.

From their position behind stacks of clothing racks, they still have an unobstructed view of Yuuri and Viktor practicing with some assistance from Georgi. Viktor’s newest collaboration with Leo de la Iglesia, _Swalla_ , plays: _No I ain’t got no dinner plans, so you should bring all your friends, I swear to all ya’ll my type._ Yuuri seems to have come alive at the opportunity to drink in and perform new material with Viktor.

The music is young, something that might work for Yuuri more than Viktor, with hints of the Latin and Caribbean influence that seems to be infecting the entire industry. It wouldn’t work as well if Viktor wasn’t at least a hot, late-30-something with a body chiseled like marble (and if it wasn’t written in an intelligent collaboration with Leo de la Iglesia with what was likely to become a very in-demand special Yuuri Katsuki feature).

Chris gasps, scandalized by the information. He picks through his options, picking out a purple jacket. Mila reaches for a set of spiked belts, looping them around Chris’ waist. In the background, sipping lemonade, is Chris’ Mystery Man. No one knows his name, just that he used to cat sit for Chris often and now follows him around like a personal assistant. Mila has a feeling their relationship has morphed beyond paperwork.

(In the background, Yuuri drops and circles his hips back up to the bumping beat of _freaky, fraky, gyal_. He seems to be enjoying himself a little too much, letting his hands rub over Viktor’s chest before whirling around to shimmy against Viktor. Georgi seems to approve, talking to Leo, even as Viktor tries to take some desperate steps back. Leo encourages him to rest a hand on Yuuri’s hip.

Chris can’t blame him. He’s equally _shook_ watching from afar as Yuuri kills the rap with expertise (proving he’s an absolute professional to put it together with Leo in hours): _How ya gonna wife these thots? You don’t get wins for that. I’m having another good year, we don’t get blimps for that._ )

“He’s already eating ass? _No_ ,” Chris grins, “I don’t believe it. Not that Yuuri isn’t a gorgeous specimen. I guess that explains why Viktor changed the set list after it was confirmed Yuuri would be replacing Sara, but I thought it was more because a _supporting star_ like Yuuri comes with a different aesthetic and it wouldn’t have made sense to bypass the opportunity to sex things up a little. I didn’t think he’d take it literally from the stage to the bedroom.”

Mila nods, “they have good chemistry, though, don’t day?”

Chris nods, pulling out his cellphone to film a video, “oh, certainly. They’re gorgeous together.”

(The video goes viral within three hours, making rounds along with a few photos taken by some dancers of Yuuri and Viktor practicing the bondage scene for Yuuri’s _very_ special performance of _Wild Thoughts_ , right out of his most recent album.

TMZ is the first one to ask the question on everyone’s mind: _Are VikNik and YuuriK Now Viktuuri?_ )

XXXIV.

Yuuri just wants a minute alone with Viktor.

Instead, he’s had almost half a day of structured practice, with barely an opportunity to cop a feel of Viktor’s chest without having Georgi remind Viktor that he’s going to need to _let_ Yuuri touch him on stage (“You know, without looking like you’ve just got the plague.”) He’s starting to feel a little cranky that he hasn’t been able to get a kiss from Viktor, not even one on the cheek (“Yuuri, what’s wrong with your lips?”).  

But, he’s hopeful.

He’s also overwhelmed to be working on a Viktor Nikiforov production. Everything has to be perfect, and Viktor has this little frown that develops in the middle of his forehead (so cute) if something isn’t perfect. Yuuri just wants to poke his forehead and kiss him.

When Yuuri sees the bed in the middle of the stage, though, he suddenly realizes that this is _real_. Only Viktor would be so extra as to give his team a 30 second transition to get an entire bed set-up. Yuuri doesn’t have to do much for _Lay It Down_ , other than lay down and look pretty while Viktor serenades him with the song he loved enough to play in the background when he lost his virginity, obviously to someone that wasn’t Viktor (but that didn’t mean Yuuri couldn’t have Viktor represented in some way).

“I need you to have fun with this one,” Yakov tells Viktor pointedly. “I want to see smiles. I want to see sweet. I don’t want this to become a porno, understood? Sweet and loving. No heavy petting. No games.”

“Why are you looking at me?” Viktor quips, crossing his arms.

“I’m looking at both of you.”

“No. You’re just looking at me,” Viktor pouts.

“You know why I’m looking at you, Vitya. Now, then, Mr. Katsuki, give us that dazzlingly questionable innocence, yes? And, start the music.”

“ _Lay your head on my pillow, lay your head on my pillow, lay it down, lay it down, oh lay it down,_ ” Viktor sings, barely resting his arms around Yuuri as they sway gently to the music, and Yuuri doesn’t even have to pretend the wonder in his eyes is real – not with Viktor giving him such a soft smile.

They twirl around the stage, skittering away from the bed. Yuuri tries to be coy as he wanders around the stage, beckoning at Viktor with the sweep of his eyelashes and the subtle cock of his shoulder or his hip. It’s strange to hear Yakov affirm that they’re doing well: “Softer!” he yells, “good, Mr. Katsuki. Vitya, that’s too soft. You can’t be a noodle when you’re singing _so go on stretch it out tonight_. Now, you lead him towards the bed.”

Yuuri chuckles when Viktor takes a moment to dip his head and whisper in his ear, “if we get any softer, we might start seeing cotton candy clouds float in.”

“I wouldn’t mind; I’m kind of hungry,” Yuuri shakes his head, slipping into the bed slowly. He leans his head towards Viktor’s touch. His knuckles feel soft against Yuuri’s cheek.

“We can probably get you some,” Viktor tells him, palm settled behind his head as he slowly pushes Yuuri further down into the bed. There’s something undecipherable in the corner of his eye, like a constellation ready to be picked apart, if only Yuuri can survive the gaps, “ _Lay your head on my pillow._ ”

Yuuri is sure that his face betrays him completely as he reaches up slowly to rub his cheek against Viktor’s jaw. He takes in the smell of Viktor’s cologne, drowning in the feeling of his arms around him, his hair tickling his temple. Yuuri wants to melt into Viktor to the sound of the chorus line.

When the song is done, Viktor is still staring down at him, looking more than a little lost.

“What’s wrong?” Yuuri asks him, taking advantage to press a kiss to his chin.

Viktor starts, pulling away quickly. He shakes his head, saying, “nothing. Sorry. I guess I must be hungry, too.”

“Oh, okay,” Yuuri whispers, feeling more than a little abandoned when Viktor doesn’t offer to help him off the bed. “Do you want to eat together?”

XXXV.

Viktor is thoroughly _fucked_. He practically runs to the bathroom to wash his face, cupping as much cold water as he can between his hands. When he looks into the mirror, he sighs, still feeling Yuuri’s kiss like a phantom limb: “What were you thinking? Keep it together, Vitya. A pretty pair of eyes should not fuck you over like this. Keep it professional.” Viktor can keep things professional; he’s going to sign Yuuri, make a killer album, and earn back what little credibility he’s lost through the years, thanks to the fickleness of the music industry. But, first, he needs to convince himself that Yuuri isn’t (probably) the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, which shouldn’t be such a stretch considering Engagement #2.

Viktor groans, “I said keep it in your pants, not give yourself PTSD with memories of your exes.”

There’s a knock at the door, and he jumps, turning around just in time to see a familiar pair of green eyes behind a pair of thick-frame glasses, and tussled hair. Engagement #3 looks inside with a shy, uncertain smile before shuffling into the private bathroom. Viktor takes a few short steps over to Engagement #3, taking the hug offered to him. It’s been a long while since they’ve seen each other. Engagement #3 is still soft, like the feeling of slipping under a fluffy blanket, but he looks good, more at peace.  
  
“Are you actually here?” he asks, feeling more at peace the moment he feels strong, plush arms wrap around him. Viktor rests his head on top of Engagement #3’s head. He’d always enjoyed the height difference.

“Yup, there was a conference at NYU, so I figured I'd stop by,” Engagement #3 smiles, patting Viktor’s cheek.

 “Viktor,” Yuuri wanders into the bathroom. He stops by the door when he sees Engagement #3.

“Oh my gosh,” Engagement #3 says, excitedly gushing, “you’re Yuuri Katsuki! Wow, you’re really more beautiful in person. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Yuuri whispers, only looking marginally broken. “I’m sorry,” he fumbles, a few clumsy steps back, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m so sorry. Please carry on.” – And Viktor has no time to say anything before he sees Yuuri trot away.

Engagement #3 watches in wonderment, studying Viktor before he says, “So it is true that you’re banging Yuuri Katsuki!”

“What? No, of course not! Where did you get that?”

Engagement #3 raises an eyebrow in question, “Viktor, there’s videos of you two practically dry fucking. He gave you a lap dance in front of thousands of people. There’s a Twitter hashtag now that’s been trending for the last hour. I think you underestimate how many people have been following the last several weeks of the two of you getting closer.” He pats Viktor’s face, “It’s been kind of strangely sweet, even if I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to date someone nine, eight years younger than you.”

“I’m not dating Yuuri Katsuki. I’m trying to sign him to my label,” Viktor explains, dismissive. He reaches for a hand towel to dab at his face. He’s so _fucked_. But, he doesn’t say a word. “We’re not together. It’s all strictly professional.”

Engagement #3 looks shocked, “Wait, what? Did you tell him that?”

Viktor gives him a helpless look.

“No, of course you wouldn’t have. I know you better than to ask that; you couldn’t even ask _me_ out on a proper date.”

“That’s not true.”

“Just because you trick the media into thinking you’re some smooth, fast-talking playboy doesn’t make you one,” Engagement #3 reminds him. “Viktor, you paid me for photography lessons for weeks, and kept telling Chris we were dating. You hadn’t even told me you were interested; I was dating someone else.”

“I knew that,” Viktor lies, “I was trying to win you over.”

“I saw that performance just now.”

“He knows,” Viktor sighs, rubbing his face, “I told him I want to sign him.”

“Did you tell him looking at him in the same way that you did just now, before giving yourself a pep talk about how to keep it professional?” Engagement #3 sighs, “Viktor, it’s okay if you want to keep it professional, but I don’t know if you’ve _seen_ how you look at him. I have half a mind to smack you: You do realize Yuuri Katsuki has been publicly in love with you for years. As in, there’s dark subsections of the Internet dedicated to writing entire libraries worth of material about your potential union in a million and one alternate universes, including a very popular one fans think can be traced _back_ to Yuuri Katsuki. So you’re here talking about signing him when he probably thinks you’re dating, and you can’t even see that you’re probably shooting yourself in the foot because it is so obvious you have a crush on him!”

“I don’t have a crush on Yuuri!”

Engagement #3 waves him off, “If you say so.”

“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check on him.”

“Because you don’t want him to think you’re cheating on him with your ex.”

“Yes, because I think I’m _this_ close to getting him to sign with me.”

“Right,” Engagement #3 says, disbelieving, “ _or_ maybe it’s because you realize I’m right, and you are so fucked because you are slowly realizing that you would _love_ to date him. Or at least bang him.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” Viktor scoffs, walking away. He stops at the door, though, to ask, “you’ll stay for dinner?”

“Yes, I’ll have dinner with you, but only to see if I can knock some sense into you. Viktor, you’re about to pass on Yuuri Katsuki! – Do you know how sexy he is?”

Viktor deadpans, “I think I have some idea.”

“Just saying,” Engagement #3 nods. “Go be nice to him. Go.”

“Professional,” Viktor reminds him.

“Go kiss him,” Engagement #3 teases. “And ask him on a proper date.”

“We’re going to talk about the contract only.”

“Okay, sure. I’m going to eat your chocolate raisings, okay?”

“Fine,” Viktor sighs, walking away.

(He doesn’t have to make it very far. When he knocks on the door to Yuuri’s dressing room, Yuuri opens the door within seconds, pulling him inside. For the second time in a single day, Viktor gets slammed against a door, only this time he has Yuuri’s very nimble leg between his own, rubbing gently against the crotch of his pants.

“Viktor,” Yuuri tells him, eyes dark, “you took exactly 15 minutes to come find me, did you know that? – I’m not a very patient person. Long waiting periods make me anxious. I start overthinking things…”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t counting. Engagement #3 is a good friend and I didn’t want to be rude,” Viktor blinks. _So fucked_ , he thinks, and, for some reason, doesn’t mind the possibility. “But I wanted to come and see you to talk. I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”

“I figured there had been,” Yuuri confesses, running a hand down Viktor’s chest.

“Yes, definitely,” Viktor nods, trying to remain resolute in his attempts at professionalism. “Look, Yuuri, I think you’re amazing—”

“Shh,” Yuuri rests a finger over his lips, “just, just listen, okay? Viktor, I think you’re incredible and amazing, so much more than I ever could have imagined. And I have absolute trust that this is exactly where we’re meant to be right now. I want to see what could happen, and I know it’s a big chance to take, but I want to do it. With you. I want to sign with you.”)

**TBC**

 


	8. HIATUS

Hi everyone,

Thank you so much for your support of this story and this series. It has been incredible to share this little messed up pop fairy tale with all of you and begin the journey on the proverbial "sometimes love isn't enough, but can be a fine base to start with." I appreciate those of you who have commented, sent kudos, enjoyed the insanity of the series at large, and send a special hug to those that decided to come party with me on Tumblr as we unpacked a million spoilers! You have all been a phenomenal source of inspiration and I adore you. Unfortunately, despite the incredible and unexpected level of love I have received from you and have developed for you, I need to put this story on hiatus for, maybe, about a month at least (let's check back in August 25, 2017, yes?).

I need to explain that this is not coming from a place of discouragement about where this story could go. I'm certainly not bored of my precious EXTRA sons. But shortly after posting Chapter 7, the next 24 hours that followed were filled with an inordinately amount of complaining and hate (that's really the spectrum) about this story through a variety of mediums, mostly on Tumblr. Most of you on here have been exceedingly kind. I have loved the precious messages some of you left on Tumblr, too, which is why I most certainly refused to turn off anon, but something really rubbed some people the wrong way about Chapter 7 (I mean, everything), and so, here we are, because timing...

(1) One of you complained about the use of Flint, Michigan in this story as insensitive. I take that seriously. 

\- I am sorry.

\- To those I offended and hurt with the depiction, I apologize directly. No holds barred. I wanted to show something, mostly the flippancy of media (in liking star saviors) and Yuuri's commitment to Michigan (and later his anger over his depiction), but intention means very little as opposed to impact. If you experienced pain or discomfort or any other negative emotion, I am sorry to have been the one to bring that on you. I don't expect to have your trust; I will do my best to re-earn it and, if I don't, that's my loss. I will review and try to figure out whether to just take it out altogether or keep it with an apology. However, I'm also currently exhausted, overworked, sick, and trying to just deal with life, so please have patience with me to take care of this. Thank you. 

\- I'm not going to go into the background of how or why the decision was made to incorporate Flint. I'm grateful to the friends who took the time to talk to me about the incorporation of a sensitive subject into fiction and truly embarrassed that I still messed up despite your best guidance. My heart is with you and I still pledge to always support the fantastic community work you do (with my wallet, too). 

(2) I would like to make clear that I do not claim this relationship is healthy. We're working and hoping that these two precious babies get there, but this isn't a story about two people in love, looking for a glitter-filled happily ever after. This is about the pains and baggage we bring with us and how we rebuild (and how, many times, for men and women to grow into their adulthood, others are left holding the pieces of having had to put out the fire first: Shout-out to the people that came before and had to deal with with rebuilding, even as you forever became the _ex_ ). If you don't like the potential train wreck, that's okay. Right now, though, this is the story that we have and I would appreciate to not get hate over it. (If you really feel strongly about something, come to me with a face and we can discuss things amicably. I'm not a mean person and I will do my best to understand you.) Your opinions and disagreements, when done respectfully, though, are super and will always be okay! Civility is the game and all I ask for. :) Thanks.

(3) I'm still going to post the last chapter of #VityaTurns40 at some point soon. I don't want to leave too much unfinished. 

This note will be deleted once I figure out how to move forward. Thanks all (and I promise to reply to comments for Chapter 7 soon)! I hope to see you for some other stories, and maybe for this one at some point in the future. 

All my love,

CMF


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